


I Want the Moon

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Quentin Coldwater, BAMF Margo Hanson, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dom/sub, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Internalised ableism, M/M, Multi, Non-Romantic Intimacy, POV Margo Hanson, POV Quentin Coldwater, Polyamory, Protective Margo Hanson, Queliot endgame, Quentin's Dad still dies, Recovery, Season/Series 04, Sick Fic, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Suicidal Thoughts, Telling Quentin Coldwater what to do because he loves it, The Monster being the Monster, even the Monster, soft puppy play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: “I don’t give a fuck if Eliot’s in Heaven or whatever,” Margo said. “I need him. He’s mine. I’m doing a full Buffy Summers resurrection if I have to. Pull him out of his celestial orgies.It’s not his fucking time!His body is right there. He needs to – He needs to get the fuck back inside it or I’ll skin him myself.”It’s taken me nearly nine months, but I finally wrote a take on Season 04. Margo doesn’t leave Quentin to look after the Monster by himself: she takes them both with her to Fillory. And that one difference changes everything.Or: Margo decides the best way to keep Quentin sane is to top him.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 79
Kudos: 273





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My sincere thanks to **portraitofemmy** whose comments and insights hugely improved this fic. Thanks to **breathedout** , **greywash** and **Petra** for cheerleading and discussing ideas with me; and all my thanks to **capeofstorm** for betaing, support, always being up for talking about my fic ideas, and putting up with me.

But I want your life before mine bleeds away –  
Here – not in heavenly hereafters – soon –  
I want your smile this very afternoon,  
(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,  
I wanted and I sometimes got – the Moon!) 

– Charlotte Mew, On the Road to the Sea 

Quentin was all over – nominally – her bed, pressing his hairy little forearms against his face. He was probably crying. Ugh. She hadn’t cried. How come Quentin had that privilege? 

OK, well. He had just found out his father was dead.

“I’m going to go with you,” Margo said.

He didn’t move. 

“Quentin. I’m going to go with you to your dad’s house. And then we’re going to take him – it – the Monster to Fillory.” 

“His hands.” Quentin snuffled into his arms. “He – He grabbed me, and they were Eliot’s hands.” 

“Don’t.” Margo rubbed Quentin’s shoulder. “I – If I start thinking about it, I’m going to – I’m not going to be able to stop –”

Her voice came out – rough. Unlike herself. She swallowed hard. 

Quentin looked up at her, raising himself up onto his forearms. “Do you think he’s still in there?” All red eyes, and snot. “Are you going to give up on him?” Voice flat. As though he was preparing himself for that to be a possibility. As though he wasn’t letting himself hope. 

She shoved him. Hard, so he lost his balance, fell onto his side on the bed. “Fuck no. Are you?” 

“Jesus.” He pulled himself back up again. Didn’t bother to rub the snot off his face. “No. I’m – We’re going to get him back, Margo. We have to get him back.” 

She could see it, then, written on his face: all that need. His intensity. His love, his obsession with what or who he loved. She could almost feel it, all of that energy focused directly onto Eliot. And she realised: _Well, I’m not fucking alone with this, at least. Even if I only have Q._

Alice was a better Magician. Kady knew battle magic. But she was Margo, and she got shit done, and Quentin loved Eliot as much as she did. 

She felt cold inside, from throat to guts. She didn’t feel hopeful. But she was determined: they were going to see this through. _They were going to get Eliot back._ She gripped Quentin’s hand: she meant to shake it, like they were making a bargain. But he clung to her hand like he was drowning, his fingers greasy with tears. 

** 

So. First they went to Jersey. Quentin had protested that he could go by himself, but he hadn’t protested very hard. Besides, he couldn’t drive: he needed her, he was so fucking hopeless. Eliot would probably appreciate that she was taking him – if he could ever appreciate anything again, which. 

It was important not to go there. 

As she drove, Quentin made a little scrunched-up sad face at her and said, “Thanks for doing this.” 

She said, “Don’t cry on my car,” and he fiddled with the radio until he found a Hozier track. That seemed appropriate. 

Quentin’s Mom didn’t say hello, she just complained, and she looked at Margo as though she couldn’t understand how Quentin had wound up in the company of someone so hot. Which – fair, Margo _was_ way too hot for him. But shouldn’t a Mom have a bit more faith? Quentin had a lot going for him under the greasy hair and anxious expression. She took Quentin’s hand just to confuse his Mom further, and was surprised when Quentin gripped back. God, he was _so needy._

It was obvious that it was at least partly his Mom’s fault he was so anxious and desperate for affection. Margo showed all her teeth when she smiled. 

“These need to be boxed up and cleared,” his Mom said, pointing to the model aeroplanes. 

“They belong to Quentin, don’t they? He can do what he wants.” Margo let the smile drop, and glared. 

The Mom glared back. Margo was kind of impressed: a lot of people wilted when she looked at them like that. 

And then they were boxing up model aeroplanes. Honestly that was maybe pushing the bounds of friendship a little far? Margo had done a lot already, driving up here and glaring at parents. She sat on the table, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. 

“So your dad was kind of a weirdo, like you?” 

Quentin glanced at her. “Yeah. Definitely socially maladjusted.” 

He took down another plane, and Margo saw how intricate the damn things were. How carefully Quentin handled them, as though they were part of him. 

“I guess this is my house now,” Q said, looking around. 

“Congratulations. I hear the New Jersey real estate market is booming.” 

Quentin’s face did the sad, scrunched-up thing again. What would Eliot do? Touch his shoulder comfortingly? Margo bit her lip. She didn’t need to channel Eliot. She was pretty great the way she was. 

“I don’t know if I want to sell it.” 

“Yeah, I can see you living in the suburbs with your model planes. Being a high school English teacher.” 

Quentin’s hands shook as he took down another plane. She thought his lip wobbled. 

“I’m teasing, honey.” 

“I know.” Quentin rubbed his face with his sleeve. “It’s just... I used to tell my dad I’d rather die than... Than live a normal live in the suburbs and be an English teacher. God, I... I tried to kill myself because looking at the kind of future was....” His voice broke. “Why did I do that to him?” 

“Well, he’s dead now. He’s not worrying about it,” Margo said, and then heard herself. “I’m sorry, Q. I think he probably loved you a lot.” 

Quentin leant against the wall, and then slid down it. A classic, I’m-having-too-many-emotions-move. Margo had seen people do that on TV; she didn’t know they did it in real life. Quentin put down the plane; his hands were trembling too much to hold it. “Yeah, but. He didn’t know how much I. How much I...” 

For about five seconds, she was grateful that the Monster showed up, because there was only so long she knew how to be sympathetic. 

He was a holding a bag frozen peas. 

“Are we playing a sitting-on-the-floor game?” the Monster asked, in a parody of Eliot’s voice. He crouched down, look at Quentin. “Your face is wet.” 

“He’s crying,” Margo said, and took the Monster’s wrist, tugging him towards her. There was a feeling, as she did that, of bad-bad-bad-wrong-don’t-touch-him because she was touching _Eliot_ , and she was also touching something ancient and strange and frightening and her brain jarred at the disconnect. But the Monster didn’t mind. He let her grip his wrist, and looked over at her, his gaze wide, childlike, not-Eliot. 

She swallowed. “Let’s get you some chips.” 

**

The Monster threw one of the planes at the wall – wood splintering, plastic snapping. Margo watched Quentin’s face flicker through a range of pain. A slow, drawn-out sound came from somewhere in his guts, and then he was throwing planes too: a blur of broken pieces and hoarse shouts. The Monster laughed, wild, entirely unlike Eliot. 

Margo thought about throwing some planes herself, because the raw anger seemed cathartic, but she let Quentin and the Monster do it. She was afraid to start shouting; afraid she’d never stop. 

“Are we done now?” the Monster asked, plaintive, treading on the pieces of wing. 

Quentin nodded, mute. Margo drove them both to a nearby diner. Her new companions: red-eyed Quentin and her possessed best friend. She was starting to get the kind of headache that wouldn’t go away for three days. 

“I’ll just have coffee,” Quentin said, folding his arms over the plastic-covered menu. 

Margo sighed. Eliot usually refused to eat anywhere with plastic menus, whereas the Monster was looking at pictures of desserts and wiggling his fingers excitedly. She was not ready for this level of responsibility, but she remember Quentin mopping up a hangover with hash browns, and she knew Eliot always liked eggs, so she placed an order for food for all three of them, ignoring Quentin’s miserable expression and only letting the Monster get one milkshake, instead of the three he was eyeing. 

She didn’t know it was possible to miss Eliot this much. 

“W-we’re going to find the gods who did this to me,” the Monster said. “Find my – my real body.” 

Quentin dug his fingers into his forehead. “Then... do you think maybe we can get Eliot back?” 

“Your friend. Eliot.” The Monster’s glance flicked to the waitress, then back to Quentin. “Is dead. But don’t worry. I’m your friend now. Same number of friends.” 

For a moment, Margo couldn’t understand what he’d said. It seemed to come from a thousand miles away, in a language she didn’t speak. She saw Quentin’s mouth, his eyes, the way his face seemed to collapse in on itself. 

Her throat was full of – ice. Her whole body was made of ice: brittle, beautiful. But mutable. She _needed_ to be ice. Frozen: so she could take charge. So she could fix this. If she let the ice melt, she’d be nothing. 

She was also full of Eliot: the second summer they’d spent together. Sunsets, dancing, the taste of sand when they kissed one another. 

_No. No sand. No beaches in Ibiza. No summer. Ice. I’m ice._

** 

She wasn’t surprised when Quentin came into her room. He was wearing a stripey pyjama top and bottoms with holes in the knees. He shuffled his feet, pulling the sleeves over his hands. 

“I miss Eliot so much.” His voice came out small and hollow. “I feel like... I feel like I should care about my Dad, and I do, I guess, but I just... I want Eliot.” 

“I know.” She didn’t – she _couldn’t_ – feel as devastated as he sounded. Not right now. But she was glad someone cared as much as she did. 

“Do you think –” Quentin worried the ends of his sleeves in his fingers. “Do you think the Monster was telling the truth?” 

“I don’t see Eliot in there.” The words felt jagged in her mouth. “But that just means the Monster’s in control. He could say anything. El could be in there, looking out...” 

The thought was so awful it made her feel nauseous. She wished she could pop an Ambien, make all of this go away. Rest. 

But she couldn’t ever rest while Eliot needed her. 

“If there’s a chance...” Quentin began. 

“If there’s a chance to get El back, we’ll do it.” Margo said. Quentin nodded; he looked relieved. 

He shuffled his feet again, like a kid, and then padded over to her bed. He sat on the very edge and contorted himself into an awkward lump, all elbows and knees. Margo touched the very ends of his hair – it was shorter than usual, and maybe cleaner. 

She wondered if he’d have gone to Julia for help if she hadn’t fucked off to become a goddess. But Margo was pretty sure that Quentin would have ended up in her room even if he’d had Julia as an option. Because no one loved Eliot like they did. _And Julia can’t look after him like I can._

“He wants us to... help him kill gods. Get his body back,” Quentin said. He turned his head slightly, into her touch, leaning towards her in a way that seemed almost unconscious.

“And if it helps us to keep El safe, I say we help.” Margo bit her lip. “But I need to go to Fillory. Because Fillory needs me, and I think we can keep him safe there – the Monster, that _thing_... Maybe we can keep it safer there than we can around the muggles.” She paused, looking at him, “You’re coming because you’re going to help me, and because Eliot wouldn’t want me to let you out of my sight.” 

Quentin swallowed. Big, wet eyes staring up at the wall. “Do you think he’ll really be safer there? Things... things often get way more fucked up in Fillory. I could... take care of him here.” 

Here, with Irene McAllister, and the library trying to destroy them because Alice hadn’t gone along with their horrific plan. Here, where he’d be alone with his thoughts. 

“Fuck no,” Margo said. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

And Quentin – looked up at her. The way she’d seen him look at Eliot. Like he was giving something of himself to her. Like he trusted her. 

And then he nodded. 

An uncomfortable ball of human. Hollowed out, like he didn’t have much left to give. Like he’d already given everything. And they were just getting started. _How do I do this?_ Margo thought, and fear sunk its teeth into her throat. 

_Ice, ice._

Margo dug her fingers against his scalp. It didn’t feel like she was touching his hair, she felt more like she was tugging at a stress ball. “You know what Eliot said to me before Blackspire? That he couldn’t lose you. I’m not going to let him lose you, Q. I’m not going to let him wake up and have you not be there. We’re in this together, OK?” 

He leant into her touch, even though she wasn’t being gentle. “Yeah.” His voice rasped. “We’ll save him.” 

He sounded so... fucking fragile. She knew he was more than that: he’d completed the key quest, he’d stared down the Beast. But she wanted to comfort him. 

“I’m not leaving you, puppy,” she said, gentle. The ‘puppy’ slipped off her tongue easier than his actual name. He turned his face towards her hand, and rubbed his nose very softly against it. And then went still all over, as if he couldn’t process what he’d done. 

“Hey.” She didn’t want him to tense up: she could do with holding someone tonight. “Come here.” 

He was awkward, all sharp edges, but she managed to get him onto the pillow, and though he was taller than she was, it was easy to fit her body around his. He let her put his limbs where she wanted them. His body, even through pyjamas, felt too warm against her own. But he smelt like laundry detergent, clean and small and _hers_. After a long time, they both began to relax. 

**

Margo didn’t think they slept for long before she became aware of a presence in their room. She tightened her arm around Quentin, felt him tense along with her. Then she saw the silhouette. _Eliot, it’s Eliot._ She was relieved. 

And then she tasted acid in her mouth. 

He was looking at Quentin. “I don’t like the lying-down game.” 

Quentin sat up. “Your body needs to rest.” 

“This body. The head... aches. Some... Sometimes the legs don’t do. What I want them to do.” 

“You should lie down,” Margo said. 

Another pause. His gaze moved to her: she wondered how much he could see in the dark. The way he looked at her would make her feel like a trapped animal if she let it. 

“Why. Should I lie down?” 

“It’ll help your head.” She didn’t want to touch him, to feel Eliot’s skin, clammy and layered with grime. But she gripped his arm and tugged. 

“A little... little stinging thing. A fly. A mos...quito. With a shiny eye.” His face was too close to hers: she could smell unbrushed teeth, sweat. And Eliot was never unclean, so it helped to ground her in the present. She let herself breathe in his sour smell. 

She licked her lips “Mosquito. That’s fine. But I know more about being a human than you do. So believe me: your body needs to rest. You’ll feel better. Maybe afterwards we’ll teach you about showering.” 

He sat on the bed. “The hot water. I tried that. It made the hair... do something.” His hands were shaking. Exhaustion? Something else? 

She heard Quentin draw in a breath. “If you lie down, I’ll tell you a story.” 

The Monster’s attention, the huge weight of his attention, shifted completely. He stared at Quentin. “What. Kind of stories. Do you know?” 

Margo moved to make room for him, and Quentin scooted over. She was on one side of Quentin, the Monster on the other: she was glad, in the pit of her stomach, that she wouldn’t have to touch the Monster. And yet: part of her wanted to stay between Quentin and danger. 

Quentin smoothed the sheet, patted the pillow, made the space more inviting. “I’ll tell you a good one.” 

The Monster lay, on the clean sheets, in his blood-filthy clothes. Shoes still on. She became aware of the smell of blood, felt it coat her tongue. Willed herself not to choke as he entered Quentin’s space, the line of his chin jutting into Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin made a little sound in his throat, almost imperceptible. 

Margo found Quentin’s wrist, squeezed it. She felt his fingers fumble, reach for hers. They held hands, like children in the dark. 

Quentin began to recite the opening of the first Fillory book. The words were simple, familiar: like old friends. And here she was, lying in bed with two people she trusted most – a parody of safety. She shut her human eye, tested whether her fairy eye could reveal anything she needed to know. But it showed her only more darkness. 

**

She’d thought the others – Alice, Kady, Josh, even Penny 23 – might be more reluctant for them to leave. It wasn’t like things were exactly _easy_ on Earth right now, even if they had magic back. 

But they were clearly – relieved that the Monster would be gone. Thrilled, even. 

She could hardly blame them. 

“I – I went to Fillory,” the Monster said, when they broached the subject with him. “I. Don’t need to go. Again.” 

“There’s a lot more magic in Fillory,” Quentin said. “We can probably be more help to you there. You know, in making you a body.” 

“It – smells nice in Fillory.” A long pause, in which Quentin looked hopeful, and the Monster looked pensive. “But Iris should be – here.” 

“We can trap her in Fillory,” Quentin twirled his fingers anxiously. “It’ll be easier there. The opium in the air it – confuses gods.” 

The way the Monster looked at Quentin: it made Margo itchy. He focused a more complete attention and interest on Quentin than he did on anyone else, and – That kind of focus, coming from him, was dangerous. She was afraid Q would put a foot wrong and the Monster would – _kill_ him. 

On the other hand, it was useful, because he convinced the Monster to follow them. 

Alice hugged Quentin for too long, and asked him again if he was _sure_ , and Quentin’s attention was so completely focused on the Monster and on Eliot that he didn’t seem to see her. Margo supported Quentin being Team Eliot all the way, but she thought he should show Alice a little more respect. Alice had always been too good for him. 

Quentin’s eyes were wet. Kady told Penny to hurry the fuck back because the library was sticking worms into Hedges, and Margo wanted to snap at her, but then the world was bending around them and they were – in the Throne room. 

The Monster stood at the tall windows, looking out at the fields. “When do we kill Iris?” he said. 

“Eliot!” Fen was running towards them and Margo – 

Had to intervene. Her eyes and throat felt like sandpaper by the time she’d explained. Quentin had provided the Monster with a variety of different kinds of Fillorian alcohol, and was watching him anxiously, occasionally apologising to the staff when he threw something at them. 

It was awful, but. Margo felt a little better, being here. The kingdom needed her – there was comfort in that. And she was in control. 

“We have to hide him,” Fen said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her breath uneven. She sat, suddenly, on the stone stairs, her skirts spreading around her. “How can we explain?”

Sitting seemed like a good plan. “Doesn’t magical bullshit happen all the time in Fillory? Besides, it’s not like he’s the king any more.” 

Fen rolled her eyes, which was. Kind of cute. “Not this kind of magical... bullshit. And people were ready to kill him last year. They will be again.” 

“Well, shit. I thought he might blend in here better than he does on Earth.” 

“Why would he?” Fen bit her lip. “Isn’t he like most Children of Earth? Murderous, selfish, unreasonable?” 

Margo snorted with laughter. “Don’t sugarcoat your opinions, Fen, I can take it.” 

She watched as the Monster slapped Quentin’s hands away; how Quentin hid a wince. Eliot had always – had presence. Commanded attention when he was in a room, whether he wanted to or not. But she’d never imagined that his shape, his height would ever make her uneasy. God, he was _so tall_ in comparison to her, or Quentin, or Fen. 

“I don’t think we need to worry about people trying to kill him. I don’t think he can be hurt.” 

“But if – if something happens to Eliot’s body? Won’t Eliot need it?” Fen wrapped her arms around herself.

“I don’t know.” Margo massaged her scalp with the tips of her fingers. Imagined getting Eliot back only to discover the Monster had – broken his body beyond repair. Fuck. 

Fen sighed so deeply it sounded like a sob. _Not you too._ “We’ll have to have a rota. Monster babysitting duty. And – figure out how to get Eliot back.” 

“And figure out what’s stopping the animals from talking.” 

“The what now?” 

Fen looked mad, suddenly: much better than tears. “Did you listen to any of Tick’s brief? Or mine?” 

“I... tried? I was up all last night with Quentin and... _him_. My brain gave out the third time that thing put a pineapple-print t-shirt on Eliot’s body. Tell me in simple words.” 

** 

“He said El wasn’t in there. That he was dead.” Quentin wasn’t eating the meal one of the palace maids had placed in front of him. The root vegetables gleamed around the fowl. 

Fen pushed her plate away too. Margo wished Quentin hadn’t told her. 

“We think he’s lying” Margo took a bite of meat to show she wasn’t going to lose her appetite. “Or that he doesn’t know what’s going on in his own head.” It took her a long time to chew. Fen and Quentin stared at her hollowly. They’d both start crying again soon. 

She wasn’t cut out to be a goddamn Kindergarten teacher. “If he’s not lying – we can still get him back. You got Alice back. No one is gone, _not really._ ” 

Quentin coughed. Rubbed his eyes. Fen said, “Maybe it’s his time, though. Maybe he wouldn’t want to come back.” 

“That’s bullshit.” Margo’s heart pulsed in her ears. “I don’t give a fuck if he’s in Heaven or whatever. I need him. He’s mine. I’m doing a full Buffy Summers resurrection if I have to. Pull him out of his celestial orgies. _It’s not his fucking time!_ His body is right there. He needs to – He needs to get the fuck back inside it or I’ll skin him myself.” 

Fen made a small noise in her throat. Her eyes were shining with tears. 

Quentin was looking at her like – like she imagined people looked at deities, or maybe the leaders of successful political movements. “We’re not letting him down. He’s Eliot; we’re getting him back.” He picked up his glass of carrot wine, and drained it, which was almost impressive, given how foul and strong it was. “I just – we don’t know what we’re doing. I thought maybe Fen could help.” 

“She doesn’t know anything,” Margo said. 

Fen hit her arm. “What do you guys say? Fuck you.” 

“ _Do_ you know something?” Margo asked. 

“I, uh.” Fen rubbed her forehead, like she was getting a headache. _Join the club_ “I _could_ know something.” 

“But you don’t,” Margo said. “We’ll find out. What did we go to Brakebills for?” 

“Not this, unfortunately,” Quentin said. “But when have we worried about the consequences of playing around with completely unpredictable magical forces?” 

“Now is not the time to start,” Margo agreed. 

A guardsman flung open the door: panting, sweaty. “Your Highness. The – er – former High King Eliot has killed two of the Previously Talking Pigs and is – er – doing something with their entrails.” He paused. “It’s distressing everyone.” 

Quentin pushed his chair back. “I’ll get him.” 

“I’ll try to calm everyone down.” Fen stood up too, and offered the guardsman her glass of wine. 

“I’ll –” Margo stared at the root vegetables. Research. She would do some goddamn research. She was always the smartest person in the room, and she was going to solve this.


	2. Chapter 2

She helped the Monster trap and kill Iris. She helped him, because... 

Someone had to help him, and she didn’t want it to be Quentin. 

Her mind blazed with pain as she stretched her magic to its limits. She held the goddess in the trap they’d created, while she thought, _What if Eliot really isn’t in there? What if I’m pandering to a spoilt god?_

Afterwards, the Monster brought them back to Whitespire. Blood-spattered. The Monster holding another stone: to her fairy eye, it glowed, full of power, like a volcano about to erupt.

“Jesus.” Quentin met them in the courtyard – she’d kind of hoped to keep it from him, and from Fen. 

“Get a bath ready for me, Coldwater,” she said. 

The Monster put down the stone he’d been cradling like a baby so he could grasp Quentin’s hands in his own. He spun him around, laughing. “I’m. Closer. I did it!” 

“Margo?” Quentin let the Monster reel him in close, his arm tight around Quentin’s waist. 

“Don’t ask,” she said. 

“Do. Ask.” The Monster let Quentin go, picked up the stone again. “Mmmargo held her and I tore into her. Iris. Iris, she trapped me. Hid me. And I... opened her up.” 

Margo absolutely was not going to throw up. That would be ridiculous. But the edges of her vision were beginning to go black, so she stepped around the Monster, trying not to remember the way Iris’s skin rippled as it opened. The sound she made. Margo was going to have a goddamned bath, and she was going to be OK. 

**

_It was. It was because Quentin in his. Dreams had. Hunched shoulders. Chalk smeared on his face. Tilted himself towards – Eliot had taken pieces. Of him. And kept them and wrapped them. And loved them. In the. In the silence between sleep and waking. It was the. The. Way he looked at. At. At Eliot –_

_And they were –_

_Were drunk and kissing each other for the first time in the whiskey-sour dark – Were reaching over the mosaic, fumbling for – He had Quentin in the crook of his arm, salt-damp forehead against his lips – Looping Quentin’s hair around his fingers, pulling him back, back, so he could kiss the knob at the top of his spine – Were waking each other, lazy, in dirty blankets, slow, slow kisses – Were drinking broth, knees touching, the light suddenly bearable after days of fever – Were drifting to sleep by the fire, the fire – They were, they were, they were –_

And Eliot was. Was. 

He was dizzy; he felt like he was on the worst come-down of his life, electricity radiated through his skull and his mouth, his hands. He couldn’t see properly: everything a jumble of light and shadow. He remembered Quentin’s mouth – 

And then he saw him. Solid; thinner than he’d been; different hair – 

_Quentin._

He had to. Tell him. He – had to – 

“I’m alive in here...” 

**

Margo knew it was Eliot before Quentin did. She didn’t know how she knew: it was something deep in her gut. Something primal: the same place that wanted her to fight back when the Monster invaded her personal space _knew_ it was Eliot, her Eliot, before he began to speak. 

There wasn’t time to go to him, to hold him and tell him – What did she need to tell him? That she _hated_ this? That he had to come back? There wasn’t any time for her at all. He was staring at Quentin like Quentin was the _whole_ world. She’d known before – for a while now, since before Blackspire – that Eliot loved him. And over the last few weeks she’d seen that Quentin loved him too. But she hadn’t _felt it_ , not like this, spread between them like it was _physical_. Like they were _woven_ together. 

And she should have been – rejoicing. Even though the Monster returned. Because she knew, now – she knew Eliot was in there. But she wanted to scream: they’d had him, and he’d slipped away. 

“I... should kill you,” the Monster said, staring between Margo and Quentin and Fen. “Little _useless_ humans. You aren’t helping me. W... what did you do to me?” 

Margo opened her mouth: but she was full of ice and acid. She thought she was going to spit bile. She wanted to hit the Monster; she wanted to fight, stab. _How_ dare _he, how fucking dare he, threaten Quentin with Eliot’s mouth. How dare he twist Eliot’s body into doing this._

_Quentin’s_ mine. 

Because if Quentin was Eliot’s then he was _hers_ too.

She swallowed. She wasn’t thinking like a King. 

Quentin soothed the Monster. She heard his voice trembling. The emotion he was trying to contain. “You’re a lot stronger than we are, but we’re trying to help. We promised. Do you want to hold the stones again? Sometimes that helps you to remember, doesn’t it?” 

He spoke patiently. Almost tenderly: Margo wasn’t sure how he did it, when she wanted to scream. The Monster let Quentin take one of his hands, and looked down at him with – something like affection. It felt wrong to see that, because Eliot could have looked at Quentin like that too. 

Fen was – crying. Ugh. Margo grabbed her hand, because she needed to hold on to someone. Fen squeezed back. 

“The Monster likes him.” Fen’s voice was ragged. 

“That was Eliot,” Margo said. 

“No – no, I know that was _Eliot._ ” Fen swallowed. “Ember’s balls, Margo, I know Eliot loves him. I mean the Monster – Quentin’s the only one the Monster listens too.” 

Then she looked at Margo, her eyes gleaming, and said, “Eliot’s _alive.”_

And seeing the weight of that realisation on Fen’s face reflected back to her – it nearly made the ice inside her crack. She hadn’t given up, she was never going to _give up_ , but she hadn’t _known_. Hope – hurt. It felt like an avalanche inside her, like her mouth was full of snow. 

“We’ll save him,” Margo said. “It’ll be up to us, Fen, you realise that? Quentin’s a – he’s just the babysitter.” 

Fen’s mouth moved. Almost a smile. Then she said, “Quentin does a lot. You always make fun of him.” 

“He likes it,” Margo said, which was true. At least he liked it when she did it, or Eliot. He smiled at them, like they were giving him gifts instead of insults. 

“What’s our plan?” Fen asked. Like Margo would have figured it all out in the last five minutes. 

She sat down, wrapping her arms around her knees. Quentin was coaxing the Monster from the room, holding a jar of the sweet apricots he liked so much. She didn’t want to imagine what he was feeling – if she was feeling so much it hurt, how was Quentin, High King of having too many emotions, containing it all? 

It was his job to have emotions; it was hers to have plans. “Well, we need to find a way to get that thing out of Eliot – that hasn’t changed. And we still know fuck all about doing that, honestly.” 

**

It was huge. What she needed to achieve was – huge. She’d done a lot of impossible things in her life, but this _hurt more._ And she needed it _more._

She thought she’d feel alone. She had to get this done; she had to save Eliot. And her kingdom. It all rested on her. 

But – 

There was Quentin, beside her. They were in this together. They both loved him, like Eliot loved them. 

It was kind of funny, really because – she’d never seen the attraction. Quentin managed to be both scrawny and stocky: how was that possible? And she’d said it before, and she’d say it again: he didn’t wash is hair often enough. His best feature was his dimples, and he didn’t smile much, so no one _saw_ them. And yet – Alice, who had boobs to _die for_ , had banged him. Eliot was – in love, apparently. And the goddamn _Monster_ had a crush on him. 

And yet – now, when he showed up in her room, she was so pleased to see him. When he was beside her, he just seemed to fit. “Puppy,” she called him, without thinking about it. He always responded to ‘puppy’; sometimes he rolled his eyes first. Today he didn’t. 

“He’s in there,” Quentin said. They hadn’t had any time to talk since they’d seen Eliot; the Monster took all of Quentin’s attention. Now he’d come into her bedroom like that was where he belonged. 

Eyes red-rimmed and bleary. “God, I – I couldn’t let myself believe it, not really. I miss him so much. I don’t – I don’t even care if he doesn’t want to see me again. I just want to – know he’s OK.” 

“Why wouldn’t he want to see you?” Margo stretched her legs out on the bed. God, she was tired. 

Quentin shrugged. Looked at his feet. “I just mean I – don’t expect anything from him. As long as we get him back, that’s all that matters.” 

He looked so – small and lonely. Oh, the stupid boy. “Did you fight with him? Before?” 

Quentin shook his head. “Only – about Blackspire. About staying in Blackspire.” 

“Yeah, that was a horrible plan.” 

“It would have worked if you – if you hadn’t _interfered,_ ” Quentin snapped. “Look how that turned out.” 

“Could you have let _Eliot_ stay in Blackspire? If that had been the plan?” Margo asked. 

“It’s different...” Quentin began. 

Margo sighed. “It’s not different. We can’t let our friend stay in a castle to be tortured. You’re not less important than Eliot, dumbass. We had to save you.” She wanted to ruffle his hair, but he was standing too far away.

He blushed. He was trembling a little. He looked – awful, honestly. The Monster barely let him sleep. And when he did sleep, she’d see him twitching, whimpering. He only looked alert when he was trying to placate the Monster. 

“I just want Eliot back,” he said in a voice so tiny it was almost hard to hear. And then he looked up, and said, more firmly, “We can do it.” 

“We’re going to get him back,” Margo said. Because they were. And because Quentin clearly had a lot of emotions to work through and she was the wrong person to help. Eliot should be the one to coax him open, to make him understand he was loved. She wanted to keep him sane and safe until they got Eliot back, but. She couldn’t undo any of the emotional trauma that had happened _before_ any of this started. 

Doing damage control was hard enough. 

Quentin’s hands bunched into fists. “Can he see what the Monster is doing? Can he see – us? Is he in pain? What’s it like when he teleports? Eliot can’t do that – so is he – is he OK? Does he know the Monster killed –?” 

“Oh, wow,” Margo said, holding up a hand. “I don’t know. And I don’t know if we should think about that.” She patted the bed next to her. “Come here.” 

And, amazingly, he came without protest. He was very good at following her instructions: it was one of the best things about him. She liked the shape of him next her. She liked reaching for him, and feeling him press his head into her hand to be pet. It was like – having an emotional support dog. A lot of work but – rewarding. Comforting. 

“Try to be happy for three seconds.” 

“But what if he’s – torturing El inside his head, and we don’t even –”

She put her hand over his mouth.

She expected him to jerk away, but he didn’t. He took a deep, shuddering breath. She didn’t move her hand. Jaw under her fingertips: muscles bunched and tense. 

“You’re so wound up. How do you not die of stress headaches?” 

He snorted. She moved her hand off his mouth; didn’t stop touching his face. He said, “You’re wound up too. And we’ve – we’ve got so much to do, I don’t know – where should we start? How do we – have we been doing the right kind of research? I wish we could – maybe we could get – Julia or...” 

“Take another breath.” He was – he was such a fucking mess. Looking at him made her feel better. Because she wasn’t a mess, not like this. Suddenly she felt like she knew exactly what she was doing. She was taking control: she was good at that. “And don’t talk until I tell you to.” 

She thought he was going to tell her to – fuck off, honestly. The would have been fair enough. And she’d have laughed, and they might have grabbed two hours of sleep. But then his eyes – widened. And he breathed out, against the tips of her fingers. And he said, “Yes, Daddy.” 

_Daddy._

It felt – good. Right away, she felt a warmth spread down to her toes. As though, without knowing it, she’d been waiting for someone to call her that. 

And she thought: _OK. I’m a motherfucking king. I can be Daddy._

Whereas Quentin – shuddered, pressed his face down, into her hand, like he didn’t want her to see him. Skin flushing red. She put her hand on the back of his neck. “Puppy,” she said, and her voice was as gentle as it had ever been. “I’m here.” 

Quentin groaned. Humiliation, hopelessness, loss, all rolled into one sound. 

_God. What would Eliot do?_

_No. More important. What does_ Daddy _do?_

“Stop freaking out. I’m too tired.” She gripped him by the hair at the base of his neck. Tugged him towards her. His head fell into her lap, and he whimpered, turning his face against her stomach. He was trembling. She felt a rush of affection: is this how he gets them all? By being so goddamn needy that no one can help taking care of him?

“What do you need, hmm? What do you need from your Daddy?” 

She didn’t know how to help Eliot, not yet. She didn’t know how to help Quentin out of his own labyrinth of issues, either. But saying those words made her feel – good. Like she was putting on a pair of really amazing heels: they’d been waiting for her, empty, and once she put them on she and they just fit together. 

“Mar –” he began. “Daddy.” He pressed his face into her, clinging to her. She realised he’d been clinging to her since – since the day all this began. Like he didn’t know how to stop himself, like she was all he had anchoring him to the world. 

He was so fucking intense. 

“Daddy, I... I’m so scared.” 

“I’ve got you.” He pressed his face into her breasts. Hungry. Desperate. It was a lot, but she felt like she was – in a yacht, navigating the strange dark sea of him. She knew what she was doing. She curled her fingers into his hair. “Do you want me to fuck you, puppy?” 

Because she was – up for that, honestly. If that’s what he wanted. She could – finger his ass, open him up for her. Was that how you calmed down Quentin Coldwater? 

Quentin gave another little... sob-groan. “Daddy,” he murmured, for the fourth time. She wondered if he – wanted to call Eliot that too. And she thought El would be a – different kind of Daddy from her. But right now, he was pressing his face into her breasts; he was clinging to _her._ “I... I don’t think I can get hard. I’m sorry. But I’d like to... to...” 

He nuzzled closer into her. She knew what he wanted, in broad terms: he wanted her to be in charge of him. But: she needed him to talk to her. She didn’t want any disasters; wanted to return him to Eliot with as little damage as possible. 

“What do you want, puppy? Tell Daddy.” 

It should have sounded like... Bad dialogue from porn. But instead the names slid off her tongue like – like she and Quentin were fitting into roles they’d been seeking for years. 

“Can I, uh. I’d like to – go down on you?” Nudging at her chest. “If you can – tell me what to do?” 

She made him lift his head from her breasts, so he could see her smile at him. “Yes, sweetheart. Yes. We can do that.” 

He didn’t meet her eyes. He pushed his hair off his forehead, shivering a little. His face red, wet. Oh well. She’d get it wetter. “I’m...” he bit his lip. “Margo, I’m...” 

He was starting to freak out again. “I’m Daddy, remember?” she prompted him. “I’m going to get undressed and you’re – you’re going to get to see my pussy, and I’m going to expect you to be thrilled. And then I might let you eat me out. You’re going to show me what a good puppy you are, hmm?” 

Quentin was – still red. But she could see a smile somewhere, too, around his eyes. He looked at her, and for a second it was almost impossible not to start laughing. She could see he felt it: that this was objectively ridiculous, that they should just – go to sleep and cling to each other like the frightened, lonely adults they were, and pretend they’d never... got to this place. 

But she could see – Longing? No, it was relief. He was relaxing, just a little bit. 

“I’d like that.” He rubbed his lips with his hand. Soft-spun Fillorian sleeve falling down his forearm. 

Margo had always enjoyed putting on a show. She knew how gorgeous she was; she’d been given some wonderful genetic gifts but she also fucking worked at it. Hard. She deserved to be appreciated; she deserved someone who admired the way a red thong brought out the gold of her skin; someone who’d appreciate the way her silver necklace picked up the sparkle on the cups of her bra. Eliot was good at appreciating her, but he didn’t feel the desire she deserved when he unzipped a dress for her; he wasn’t excited enough when he guided her panties down her leg. 

Quentin’s stare wasn’t refined like Eliot’s. It was raw – full of wanting, need. The intensity of his attention was – It was more compelling than she’d thought it would be. The scrawny little nerd didn’t deserve her, and he knew it, and that was – that was kind of hot. 

She put her hands on his shoulders, straddled him. He turned his face up to hers, lips parted but didn’t – Didn’t initiate a kiss. She liked that, too. She touched her lips to his, chaste, waiting to see what he’d do. He pressed up against her, arching towards her, but he didn’t try to tug her towards him. Didn’t try to shove his tongue in her mouth. 

The heat of his skin. He tasted like salt, like tears. She licked his mouth open, licked the roof of his mouth, felt him – Moan and melt in response. She wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck, hooked her thumb over the line of his throat. He shivered, tongue touching hers. Jesus. Did he _know_ how submissive he was? Did he have a dating profile on a fetish site? Or did he think this was how everyone felt? 

She squeezed the back of his neck, just a little and he arched up into her in response. “Are you hard now, puppy?” she asked, her hand going to his groin. Not that she was going to do anything about it if he was, she just wanted to – gauge the situation. 

But he tensed in response. Pulled away a little. “No – I’m – I’m sorry...” 

“Quentin.” Tracing her finger over the shell of his ear, feeling the tension thrumming through him. “We can stop – what do you want?” 

“I don’t want to stop.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry I’m like this, I can...” 

“Quiet,” she said, and the word came out low and commanding. “You’re fine the way you are. This is going to be all about me. And my needs. That’s the way I like it.” 

He nodded, and he said, “Thank you,” as though she’d offered him a gift, and then that seemed – 

Entirely natural. She nudged him down between her thighs, and he gave her a tiny smile as he went. 

And honestly, why did people say ‘pillow princess’ like it was a bad thing? The way Quentin pressed his little raspy face up into her, the way his mouth opened for her – it was obvious that she _was_ giving him a gift. That he was fucking privileged because she lay back like this and – allowed him to bury his tongue in her. She felt – good in a way she hadn’t felt good in too long. Burning with pleasure and heat, and aware that she was – beautiful, and adored, and finally getting what she deserved. 

_I’m such a fucking narcissist._

_Yeah, but I’m taking care of Quentin, too. I need some perks._

He wasn’t – honestly, he wasn’t that good at it. But he liked instruction, and most people – men especially – could not take instruction. Not like this. Not like every time she said, “A little further up. More gently, less suction. That’s it,” was all they’d ever wanted to hear. 

And before she knew it, she was talking like – like the only natural way to speak to him was to say, “You’re a good boy, good puppy, well done, Daddy’s so pleased with you,” and each time it felt better in her mouth. And he responded with such – eagerness. Rubbing his chin against her, his tongue, his whole wet face squeezed between her thighs. 

Then closer she came to coming the harder it was for her instructions to be coherent and the easier it was to just say, “Yes, keep going, yes, Daddy likes that, yes.” 

Heat radiated through her, pleasure building and building into the familiar burning rush – She came harder than she’d expected Quentin Coldwater could make her come, honestly. Her mouth dry, her vision blurred. 

He stayed where he was, between her thighs, tonguing her softly. She pulled him up by his hair – god, his face was wet. Covered in her. “Messy little puppy,” she said, rubbing her thumb over his cheek. He turned his face into her hand, wanting to be caressed. 

She asked him to take his shirt off, because she wanted to feel his skin against her own. “You can keep all your clothes on, puppy, if that makes you feel better,” she told him. 

But he stripped the shirt off and then – made a beeline for her breasts, and she laughed and held him as he mouthed at her skin. “Daddy,” he murmured. He touched his lips to her nipple, and she stroked the back of his head, and that seemed to be permission, because he nudged her nipple and her areole into his mouth, and sucked, very softly. He sighed through his nose, like he was exhausted, and she stroked his hair and – She could sleep, now, finally. For three seconds. 

“Do you want to wash your face?” she asked. 

He shook his head, pulled himself away from her boob like it was – physically difficult for him to part with it. “I like smelling like you.” He sounded calm, unembarrassed. 

She was proud of him; she tangled her fingers in his hair. “Do you need anything? Do you think you can sleep?” 

“I’d – Can I stay here with you, Daddy?” 

“At this point, it would be fucking weird to sleep without you.” 

She let him pillow himself back into her breasts. He blinked up at her, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Good puppy,” she said, reflexively, and he – squirmed a little, nuzzling into her. Then she spelled the candles out, and reached down to draw the blankets over both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: As an autistic writer, I’m interested in how autistic people are seen by society, and the ways in which we are perceived as monstrous. In this chapter, I explore some of those ideas through Quentin and his interactions with the Monster. If that’s something that would be triggering or upsetting for you, please take care. 
> 
> The quoted poem is Sailing to Byzantium by W. B. Yeats.

_Once out of nature I shall never take  
My bodily form from any natural thing,  
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make  
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling  
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake_

Quentin had never liked Yeats; he’d had some pretty harsh things to say about the Celtic revival movement during the exam in college, and yet the lines squirmed around his head. Made him want to say them, over and over. Like a crazy person. 

_Of hammered gold and gold enamelling_ , he thought, as he sat in the yellow-panelled alcove by the throne room and stroked the Monster’s hair. He didn’t have many memories of touching Eliot’s hair – once, maybe, when Eliot had been recovering from a flu, in another life, he’d let Quentin wash his hair, but mostly he had a very strict conditioner routine and didn’t like anyone to fuck it up by touching his curls. The Monster, on the other hand, sighed at the touch of Quentin’s fingers, and hummed as Quentin eased out some of the tangles. 

_A drowsy emperor_ – Quentin used to picture the emperor as young and handsome: blond-haired, freckled, broad-shouldered: someone Julia would have dated in high school. But now: _He’s my drowsy emperor, and I am subject to his whims,_ Quentin thought, listening to the Monster hum tunelessly, and he wondered what else he could use to soothe him, what golden form would amuse him today. 

Quentin breathed carefully. Deep breaths, he’d noticed, could turn into hyperventilating, like his body was always one moment away from panic, but too shallow was a bad idea as well. He deliberately relaxed his shoulders. Breathed. And smelt – Margo. He hadn’t washed his face since last night; he was trying not to think too hard about last night, but the scent of Margo clung to him, comforted him. 

He’d thought maybe she – wouldn’t want to look at him or speak to him, after, but she’d held him, and he’d woken with his head still pillowed on her chest, his arms limpeted around her. She’d kissed the top of his head. When she spoke her voice was – experimental. “How’s my puppy?” 

And he waited to feel – embarrassed or nettled. He was sure a Quentin from three months ago wouldn’t have – wouldn’t have let himself sigh and nestle closer to her. This Quentin felt only relief. _Oh thank fuck,_ he thought, _thank fuck she’s not making me be_ – He didn’t have the words for what she might make him be. Something – more. 

_Let me just do what you say. Let that be all._ He didn’t need to say it out loud: Margo understood. Daddy understood. He was so grateful. 

For a moment he let himself imagine that Eliot was here, that it was Eliot who leant against his calves, and he’d – he’d say something that would make Eliot snort with laughter, and he’d tilt his head up to look at Quentin, and Quentin would – 

Not catch his mouth in a kiss. He’d smile back, and they’d be friends again, and looking at Eliot would make the raw place in his chest ease, fade. 

But it wasn’t safe to pretend any of that. Thinking too much about Eliot made it feel like there were worms crawling between his bones and organs, between his brain and skull. 

He was alone with the Monster now. That was all there was. 

“You – stopped,” said the Monster, twisting away from Quentin. 

“Sorry.” Quentin tried to thread his fingers back into the Monster’s hair, but the Monster flinched. 

“No, I don’t like it any more. I want to play a different game.” 

Quentin bit back a yawn. What could he suggest now? Magic tricks? Stories? 

“I want some of... of Margo’s little pills.” 

“You can’t have any more; those can kill you.”

“Kill the b-body. I can get a better body. This one is... This one hurts in funny places.” 

Adrenaline instantly coursed through him. Quentin tugged at his hair, trying to – hold himself together. “It hurts? Where?” 

The Monster shrugged. “A pill, another pill. Help me find one.” 

“No. You – you’re not supposed to take them. I wish you hadn’t found them.” 

Then he was – crashing into the pillar, tasting blood and dust in his mouth. Dazed. The Monster hunched his shoulders, stared at him, a feral look in his eyes. 

Quentin flinched; his skull pulsed. “Stop it!” His voice loud, uneven. And yet – he realised he was entirely unafraid. He’d spent so much time so afraid and suddenly it was just – gone. A white heat burnt behind his eyes. 

“You are – useless to me. You try to – make me _forget_ what I need to do. How I need to – find myself. I should kill you.” 

Before Quentin knew what was happening, the Monster was across the room. In his space. And his fingers laced around Quentin’s throat, traced his skin. It was almost tender, except Quentin felt the touch like flames. The magical strength in the Monster’s fingers – vast, impossible. Inhuman.

“Kill me then.” It wasn’t a bluff. Quentin knew the Monster was capable of it. “Kill me, I don’t care – but if you hurt Eliot, we’re done with you. We’re all done with you.” 

The Monster’s fingers – tightened. But he wasn’t hurting Quentin – not yet. Quentin teetered on a thread, realising again how he couldn’t ever relax, how the moments he spent away from the Monster cost Eliot. Hurt Eliot, every time. He had to soothe the drowsy emperor, to make the toys of gold. 

“Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. Why do you care about him so much?” 

Quentin – 

swallowed against the press of fingers. Looked up into the face he – he loved. The face it was unbearable to look at. “Because I do.” He met the Monster’s eyes. “If you hurt Eliot, you can forget about us –”

“...Ever tolerating you again.” Margo. He heard Margo’s voice and he felt a rush of – fear mixed with relief. Because Margo wasn’t exactly someone who de-escalated situations. But she also – part of him was _so sure_ she could keep Eliot safe. Make everything better. 

“What are you doing to Quentin?” Her voice was full of ice. 

“What I – I want to do.” The Monster glanced at her. “I should kill you too.” 

“Listen to me, you ungrateful foreskin. You let go of my – of Quentin _right now_ , because if you hurt him I will figure out ways to fuck you up that you can’t even dream of. And if you hurt Eliot – you don’t know what I’m capable of, you – you miserable goat scrotum. You might be a god but I’m – _I’m Margo_ and I am smarter and stronger than any man-child. So come for me, if you think that’s a good idea, but leave my boys out of it.” 

She paused. Quentin felt the moment – stretch. Felt the sweat at the back of his neck, the power of the Monster’s fingers. 

“And I can help you. I _am_ helping you – how much harder do you think this would be without me? You keep Eliot safe and I will go to the ends of all the worlds there are to help you get your fucking _revenge_ , to get your body back – and you are so lucky to have me on your team, you have no idea –”

“Enough.” The Monster raised two fingers. But he didn’t blast Margo. “I’ll take care of the meat-suit. You don’t have to be such – b-babies about it.” 

His thumb ran over Quentin’s throat, from jaw to collarbone. Tender. And then he let him go, stalking from the room. 

Quentin knew he’d need to follow him. Get him a snack. His brain felt too big for his skull. 

“You’re swelling up,” Margo said. “Are you concussed?” She touched him, probing the side of his forehead. When he thought about it, he realised how much it hurt. 

“Jesus, Margo.” Quentin rubbed his face. “You really – he could have killed you.” 

“He could have killed _you!”_

She looked furious. Quentin suddenly felt – immensely proud of her. Immensely glad she was here. He wanted to tell Eliot all about it. He could almost hear Eliot’s laugh. 

“I liked ‘goat-scrotum’,” Quentin said. 

“Fuck.” Margo ducked her head, leant it on Quentin’s chest. Her arms went round him – clumsy and loose. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“It’s OK. We’re OK.” 

“I’m going to kill him.” Margo jerked away from him. “As soon – as soon as we get Eliot I’m going to fucking end him in ways he can’t even understand.” 

** 

The thing was – the thing was, and it was awful to admit it, he didn’t actually want to _kill_ the Monster. He would kill the Monster specially if killing the Monster added up to saving Eliot. But the Monster – 

Wasn’t evil, not exactly. He wasn’t even cruel. He wasn’t human; he didn’t look at things the same way. And he’d been locked up for – millennia. He’d been cast aside; he was an unformed thing, an unwanted thing. He was just trying to – make himself whole. Quentin could understand that. And yet – he knew the Monster wasn’t _safe._ That he couldn’t be allowed to wander the worlds killing people whenever he wanted – 

Bile rose in Quentin’s throat. He wanted, more than anything, to stop thinking. _Kill me_ , he’d said to the Monster, and he’d meant it. _Kill me. Let me be done._

Except that Eliot needed him. 

Margo needed him.

He kind of – hated them for needing him. He watched the Monster nibbling at the meat pie the cook had given him; glad they were alone again. It was worse when he had to witness Fen’s horror at the way the Monster behaved; when he watched the palace staff cringe away from him. 

Quentin slid down onto the floor where he felt small and marginally safer. His hands – twitched without his consent. Fingers fumbled, flapped. _Quiet hands,_ he thought. _Quiet hands, Quentin_. He remembered all the times his OT had said that to him when he was a kid: her pink lipstick, the way she’d stared into his eyes. How he’d listened to her. 

Then: the classroom at Brakebills; the familiar arrangement of desks; the unfamiliar books and marbles and diagrams. 

And hands. Hands everywhere – as though all that twisting and flapping he’d done had been practice. For this – for a spark of light in the air, for feeling the movement of magic under his fingers, for reshaping a tiny part of the world. 

He’d thought that they’d been wrong. That they’d said he was autistic, but really he’d been a magician all along. 

The Monster crouched down, looking at him. He raised Eliot’s hands – twirled them in tandem with Quentin’s own. “Is it magic?” 

“No – it.” Quentin swallowed, tried to still his fingers. It was a battle. “It just feels good.” 

The Monster turned his head slightly to one said. Fingers fluttered, rose, twitched. “H-h-hands are so strange. Wiggle, wiggle. So breakable.” 

Quentin watched Eliot’s strong, clever hands move with the Monster’s stilted gestures. “Less,” the Monster said, slowly, looking at his own fingers. 

“Less – what?” 

“So loud. All the – all the world. So loud. When I’m down here, it’s. Less.” 

Eliot who – loved parties. Who knew how to dance, how to make people smile. Who knew what people needed. Who’d – taken years to understand what Quentin meant when he said the world felt like _too much_. Quentin would watch him, the way he could capture the attention of a room full of people and think – _This is magic, you’re magic._

Quentin loved the way Eliot had never wanted to hide. The way he’d always want to coax Quentin off the floor, even when Quentin knew he couldn’t be coaxed. 

The Monster was looking at him – earnestly. Carefully. Like he was trying to figure out something very difficult. And for a second Quentin wanted to – protect him. Tell him, _Yes, the world is too loud. Yes, it is too much._

Maybe they had belonged in Blackspire together. In the dark together. 

In the end he just – nodded. “Yeah, sometimes you need the quiet.” 

**

Days had passed since she’d stopped the Monster from choking Quentin. Days – she’d lost track. And yet – 

How long could they sustain this? Margo swallowed the rest of the carrot wine. Today she’d helped the Monster dump a guard’s body. What else could she do? He’d wanted to take Quentin but – 

But making Quentin dispose of dead bodies was not part of her plan to keep him as sane as possible. 

_Bacchus._ That first time – when she’d still thought that she’d only need to do this one agonising thing, and then she’d get El back – 

_Iris._ Her mouth opening, the blood in her pale hair – 

And yet it was – easier to think about killing them than to think about the Fillorian guard – she didn’t know his name; she should have known his name. Fen would know. But – but he was one of _her_ people. And he hadn’t been alive for thousands of years, like the gods – he’d had been what: mid-thirties? And an ageless being with Eliot’s eyes had decided it was OK to – end him. 

Her hands trembled. _Ice,_ she reminded herself. _A glacier. Huge, vast, cold_. She had to maintain the ice-scape inside her. No fucking global warming allowed. 

She swallowed the rest of the wine and flopped back onto the bed, the bottle dangling from her fingers. 

“I got him down. He’s sleeping now.” Quentin shut the door of her room behind him. 

“Did you sing him a lullaby?” Her mouth was sour and her voice came out bitter. 

“I told him a story. I’ve kind of – run out of _Fillory and Further_ stories, so we’re doing _Harry Potter?_ He likes it.” 

“Christ.” Margo – didn’t even smoke, it was bad for her skin, but she suddenly craved a cigarette. “Sometimes you talk about him like – like he’s a person.” 

Quentin worried his lip. “He kind of... is a person?” 

Margo felt like something was cracking inside her. She sat up, rubbing her head. “Don’t get Stockholm Syndrome on top of your PTSD, Quentin. I can’t cope.” 

Quentin sat at the edge of her bed. His head hung. “I’m...” He paused, swallowed. “You’re probably right. It’s just... He never had a chance. They made him and they decided he was wrong, and they locked him up, and... He didn’t want any of it.” 

“Then why is he doing it?” she snapped. 

Quentin’s mouth moved but Margo – 

Threw the carrot wine bottle at the wall. 

Quentin flinched. 

“I buried a body today. He made Eliot’s hands kill that guard. That wasn’t... fair. That wasn’t...” 

She swallowed around the burning in her throat. _Glaciers – Alaska – Polar bears –_

Quentin put his hand on her arm – tentative, delicate. 

“Fuck off, puppy,” she snapped. ‘Puppy’ came out brittle and sharp, and it weighed down the space between them. Because – ‘puppy’ always meant ‘stay’. Meant ‘I need you.’ 

“I have to – I have to figure out if he had family. Make sure he has a – I don’t know, a pension. A proper funeral? How the fuck am I going to explain the lack of body? _Oh, your elected monarch had to hide his corpse because it was too obvious that a capricious god in the body of another of your recent monarchs wanted to – wanted to experiment –_ ” She had to – had to keep talking, because if she kept talking, she wasn’t crying. But the burning in her throat was catching up with her words, and they were starting to come out – damp. Unformed. 

Quentin’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked – damp too. “W-we’ll figure it out; we’ll make an excuse...” 

She gripped the hand she’d pushed away, and he surged towards her, like he’d been waiting for permission, and then his head was on her shoulder, and she – felt herself shuddering in his arms. A hurricane howled through her. 

She needed – control. She needed something to hold onto. 

She gripped Quentin’s hair. “Puppy. How would you feel about following some instructions, hm?” 

They hadn’t – played since that first time. They hadn’t discussed this enough. But Quentin looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and need written all over his face, and – 

OK. 

Margo traced the line of his jaw, the fuzz of his throat. The places the Monster had touched. She felt a tremor under Quentin’s skin – like her, he at all times seemed to be barely holding himself together. But he’d had less to hold onto in the first place, so it was more obvious. 

Service dogs needed strict boundaries. She could give him that. 

When she kissed him, she imagined how they’d look to an observer: Quentin diminished himself, so she, smaller than he was, leant over him, and he rose up into her. How her hand found the back of his neck, the side of his face, how he yielded to her, like he was a sapling, and she the north wind. And how good that made her feel: the interplay of their bodies, the tension of her limbs – _I’m a goddess,_ she thought; and then: _No. Definitely not an immortal being. I’m a king, and I look like a king, and I’m taking what’s mine._

She wanted Quentin on his knees, but she didn’t want him on the ground either. That was too far. She pushed him gently away from her, onto his haunches, and flopped back into her pillows. 

“What do you need?” 

He worried his lip. 

“What – what would you do, if Eliot was here?” 

Quentin tilted his head. “Celebrate?” he tried. 

She was treading uncertain ground. She could see the nerves in Quentin’s face, in the way he was beginning to – close himself off from her. But she was never afraid of pushing. 

“I mean, if you were like this – kneeling at the bottom of the bed because Eliot told you to. And he was here, where I am, getting undressed.” 

Quentin moistened his lips. “D-daddy...” 

“Is Eliot your Daddy, too, puppy?” she asked.

“El doesn’t fuck me. You know that.” Quentin sounded hollow. 

Margo reached for him, because her – her sweet puppy was so responsive to her touch. His leaned towards her, and when she opened her arms to him, he surged into them, pressing his face against her neck. 

“You want him to fuck you, though, don’t you? You want to suck his cock – you’re so hungry for him, aren’t you?” 

Quentin made a sound in his throat, like a sob and a moan. Margo was becoming familiar with that noise. 

“He – he doesn’t want me.” A whole world of misery was in those words. Margo tangled her fingers in Quentin’s hair knowing – knowing immediately and completely how much Eliot wanted Quentin. _Fucking – dumbasses, why do I have to do everything, even arrange their relationships, Christ –_

“When he came back – when he had his body again, just for those few seconds – he didn’t look at anyone else but you. He didn’t even look at _me_.” She tugged at Quentin’s hair. “He wants you. He’s just – an idiot.” 

Quentin snuffled wetly into her neck. _Great. Sexy_. But she’d brought this on herself. 

“I’m – He didn’t want me last year, when we were – And now I’m. I’m.” Another snuffle. “I can’t even get it up. I can’t even – I just want someone to take care of me. I only – I only feel OK when I’m doing what you tell me. Why would – why would he want that? Why would anyone?” 

Margo took a deep breath. She was getting better at sympathy, but. God. She was tired. “Because you’re a good boy. You underestimate the attraction of a good, sweet puppy who’ll do what he’s told. And –”Another calming breath. “You’re a good person, Q, and we love you, and Eliot won’t stop wanting you just because – because you’re having a hard time, Your dad died, and your – your _Eliot_ is fucking possessed, and – if I’m traumatised, I have no idea how traumatised you are: so. Of course you’re having a hard fucking time. You’re still – you’re still worthwhile. Important. OK?” 

He pressed towards her; leant his forehead against hers. Didn’t say anything. She felt his tears falling onto her face. Which was weird, and gross, and kind of satisfying, like she was crying without the trouble and agony of actually crying. From outside, now, this would have looked – sweet. Romantic, even. 

“That was –” He swallowed. Damp. “That was a good pep talk, Margo, thank you.” 

“Well, you know.” She stroked his cheek. “I want to return you to Eliot in reasonable condition.” 

He nuzzled at her like a little animal. An actual puppy. “Daddy,” he murmured. Like he was checking she was still there. Then, after a moment, “Daddy, what do you need?” 

“More wine and a blowjob,” she responded instantly. 

Quentin – laughed a little. “I can definitely help you with that. Do you want me to go the kitchens, or...” 

“I’d like you between my thighs, but, puppy? Don’t feel like you have to. We can cuddle and fall asleep, if that’s what you need.” 

“That’s not what I need.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t catch the words. 

She wasn’t feeling exactly – aroused. She was pretty sure she could get there, but. She kept her hand on Quentin’s face, thumb on his jaw. “You never answered that. What you need. What you’d want from Eliot.” 

Quentin stared at his hands. “I want – I want to feel – solid. Like I’m really here. I – Sometimes I like to be spanked?”

She laughed. “Oh, puppy. You say that like it’s a surprise.” 

Though she couldn’t – entirely imagine who had spanked him before. But it was better not to think too deeply about Quentin Coldwater’s sex life. She kissed him again, his tear-damp cheek, his soft lips. “What do you like?” 

“I just, um.” Hiding his face as though this was the most terrible secret. “I lie across your knee? And you – you spank my, um, ass. I guess.” 

He sounded so anxious. Margo tweaked his ear. “Who wouldn’t want to spank you, hmm? You’re so needy for it. You know you need to be – given limits. You need us to keep you safe, don’t you?” 

She could imagine Eliot saying almost exactly that to him. If she’d – Before all this, if Coldwater had asked her to spank him, she’d have wanted to tell him what a bad boy he was, how he fucked everything up and she had to pick up the pieces, and did he think he even deserved to be punished? But that wasn’t what he needed now. It wasn’t part of what was growing between them. God help her, she wanted to be gentle with him. To soothe him: even if that meant spanking him. 

Especially if that meant spanking him. 

And Quentin was nodding. Chewing his lip. Embarrassed, but not so embarrassed he wasn’t eager. 

“Pants off, puppy. I hope you’ll be grateful when I’m done with you.” 

She shrugged her own dress off; it wasn’t warm in the draughty stone room, but she wanted to feel Quentin’s skin against hers. Candles guttered. She sat at the edge of the bed, watched Q struggle out of his pants as though he’d never tried to undress before. Hairy thighs; stomach white and soft; cock trailing small between his legs. Shivering a little. 

“Over my lap,” she said, and he tripped over his own feet in his need to obey. 

It took them a moment to get settled. Skinny as he was right now, it was still difficult to distribute his weight over her thighs. The pale skin of his ass, soft dark hairs running down his spine, the tension in his shoulders. She traced her fingertips between his shoulder blades and he – 

Shuddered. Made a sound like he was in pain. 

“Sweetie, I barely touched you.”

He took a deep breath. “Light – light touch is really hard for me? It makes me feel like my skin is – on fire. It’s much better if you’re firm.” 

She tried again, rubbing circles over his back, digging in her fingers. He sighed in response. 

His skin – The first time she hit him his skin felt too soft, too thin. A vivid red mark stood out, though she hadn’t hit him hard. He made a little sound in response, an indrawn breath. She dug her toes into the cold floor, tried again. Sting of skin on skin. A small sound in the large room. The crash of the breaking bottle had been much louder. 

Then Quentin turned his head, bit his lip. “I thought you were going to spank me, Daddy, not pet me.” 

He looked: brattish, tousled, red-cheeked. He was exactly right: it made her smile. It made her want to hurt him. 

She raised her arm. She heard his ‘ooof’ of surprise this time. _Goddamn_ , she thought. _This needy puppy, this pain in my ass. This boy who makes me give and give and –_

“Say ‘safeword’ if it’s too much,” she told him. She felt Quentin nod: they should discuss it more, but. There wasn’t time. 

She needed him; he needed her. 

So she let all the strength of her compact body meet his skin, in a burst of red, of sweat, of sound.  
The sounds he made: unabashed. Other people she’d done this to had pretended it didn’t hurt, that they didn’t care. Quentin had no bravado. She hit him and he whimpered. She hit him harder and he keened. 

Once he tried to squirm away. She gripped his hip. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?” 

He clenched his fists into the bed sheets. Shook his head. “No, Daddy.” Raw and honest. He settled into her lap, and she hit him more gently until she found her rhythm again. 

Oh the sounds he made. 

Oh this heat between them. She grew hot, his skin heated, they were burning together. 

Then his chest shook, he sobbed. “Enough, enough, please, enough.” 

“Of course,” she whispered. Her hands were trembling. Quentin turned his face towards her, and his expression – the openness, tenderness, almost made her choke. He wriggled off her lap, towards her: she kissed him, his face, his lips, his cheeks. Oh her boy, her puppy. He ducked his head against her breasts. She kissed the crown of his head, as she felt him mouthing her nipples. His tongue, his lips. 

She shivered at his touch, the softness of his mouth. “Daddy,” he whispered into her skin. “Daddy, please.” 

Her voice came out hoarse. “What do you want, puppy?” 

“I want to go down on you.” He sounded steadier now. More assured than she’d expected. 

“Be my guest.” She wanted him – close. It made her feel raw, unlike herself, how close she wanted him to be. How even if he hadn’t wanted to kiss her or get her off, she’d still want them to be skin to skin. To breathe the same breath. 

He was – thorough. Tasting her body, her stomach, her thighs. Nipping at her: hungry for it. She wanted to say, _Hurry the fuck up_. And she didn’t want to. She wanted to let him touch her, drink her in. 

Then he finally mouthed her cunt: eager, desperate. He only licked her six, seven times before sensation needled through her. She came against his face, a small starburst, bucking into him. She pressed her hand into the back of his head when he began to draw away. He looked up at her, chin slick. “Yes, Daddy,” he said. 

He lapped and lapped. She came again, hard, shivering in waves of heat. Her limbs suddenly slack, her mind empty. She touched his head, her hand in his hair. He stayed where he was, head on her thigh, breath ghosting her pussy. 

“You’re such a good puppy,” she said. Candlelight flickered on broken glass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter alludes to Margo's desert quest, but doesn't directly describe it, because the show actually did a good job there.
> 
> Canon-typical violence warnings apply.

Quentin dozed on Margo’s thigh, and woke cold, stiff-jawed, smelling pleasantly of Margo’s vulva.  
As he moved up the bed, into her warmth, he was aware of a slight soreness in his ass and – 

_He was lying on his stomach, playing with two mosaic tiles, sun slanting on naked skin. Eliot, kneeling nearby, glanced at him, and away, and back again. Smiling._

_“What?” Quentin asked._

_“Nothing.”_

_Quentin wriggled closer, naked stomach on cool stone. “No, really.”_

_Eliot’s hand on the back of his neck. “You look so smug for a brat who just got spanked.”_

_Quentin sat up, tilted his head to catch the roughness of Eliot’s stubble against his cheek. Salt-clean taste of skin as he nipped Eliot’s lip. He felt so warm. So safe. It –_

Wasn’t real. Quentin’s mouth suddenly dry. He pulled the blankets around himself, around Margo. She was asleep on her back, snoring faintly through her nose. He wanted to settle against her, smell her skin. His eyes were burning, breath coming too fast. He couldn’t relax against her, he – He remembered an Eliot in another life, saying, “You don’t ever need to be ashamed,” as he bound Quentin’s hands, and yet he was ashamed, that wasn’t this life, that wasn’t _this_ Eliot – 

_He loves you_ , Margo had said. Did he trust her, to know this Eliot better than he did? Last night, as he’d lain across her lap, he’d felt – Solid. He’d believed everything she’d said. He’d given her his trust, and she’d – Held it. Held him safe. 

Maybe some of it was real. 

And it didn’t matter, anyway: how he felt wasn’t important. Saving Eliot was all that mattered. 

He let himself settle against Margo’s side. She snorted softly, rolled over, threw her arm around him. She was so warm, so _present_. He lay with her, thinking he couldn’t sleep now, couldn’t relax, but wanting to remain at her side. He could just make out the shape of her face in the dark. 

** 

Being briefed at breakfast – not ideal, but at least she’d slept better. She had a crick in her neck she was pretty sure was related to Quentin’s relentless snuggling, but her head was clear. She picked at the eggs they all tried to pretend had the same texture as chicken’s eggs and didn’t resemble jellyfish at all. 

They’d solved the talking animals problem, which: great. Except it meant they were receiving all the messages that hadn’t arrived when the bunnies couldn’t talk all at once. She was getting really tired of hearing: _Need to discuss problem with High King, arriving tomorrow._

“You have to contain him,” Tick was saying. “When the delegates arrive. They can’t be allowed to see him.” 

_The guard’s face as she’d sunk his body into deep water: his eyes, his wispy moustache._ “Yeah, good note,” Margo said. “Any idea how we’ll achieve that?” 

Tick screwed up his mouth. Fen spread butter so hard the bread tore into pieces. Quentin leant chin on hand, eyes rheumy. “I’ll figure it out.” 

“Love the confidence, Q. Not sure you can back it up.” Margo shoved the last of the gummy eggs in her mouth. “Brief me on the delegates, Tick.” 

“...Loria, the Flying Isles – you know them. The Stone People. The Foremost – he won’t come...” 

“The Wandering Desert...” Fen stood up so suddenly her chair rocked backwards. 

“And?” Margo looked up at her. “Do you have a phobia?” 

“Tick!” Fen exclaimed. “Don’t they – Can’t they – fix possession? Expel monsters?” 

“Holy shit – Tick?” Margo stood up too. Quentin remained seated, but his stare was intense. 

“They won’t help us. They hate Fillory.” Tick’s face was set. 

_“Who gives a fuck?”_ Margo could feel blood throbbing in her ears. “We’ll make them help us – if they know anything!” 

Fen nodded frantically. Tick looked sour. “I – I should go to them,” Quentin said, his voice wobbling. 

Laughter rose from Margo’s chest in hot bubbles. She wanted to run around the room, stick her head out the window and scream, stab someone. She grabbed Q’s wrist. “Coldwater,” she said, coughing, trying to make the laughter leave her throat. “No. Obviously I’m going. It sounds – dangerous and violent.” 

“That does sound more like something you would be good at,” Fen said, standing beside Quentin’s chair. 

“It will be virtually impossible,” Tick said. 

“I should come too,” Quentin said, at the same time as Margo snapped, “ _Virtually impossible_ is where we live.” 

**

In the end, Quentin spent so much time babysitting the Monster that he didn’t even get to argue with Margo about the plan, or figure out whether he should go with her, or.... Anything, really. Margo was not wrong when she’d said his main role was babysitter. 

He honestly barely even knew what the plan was. And – maybe he was a fucking coward, but. He trusted Margo _way more_ than he trusted himself. Maybe it was OK that the way he was _useful_ was trying to distract the Monster from his sudden whim to go New York and – 

That made Quentin think about Alice and Julia, and a normal life he’d never really had. He remembered leaving Brakebills once, walking with Eliot in Brooklyn; Eliot passed him smokes and made jokes while they wandered through a park and how – 

He’d been full of warm contentment, and how rare that feeling had been, how it felt so fucking new he hadn’t know what to do with it. He’d look at Eliot and smile until Eliot asked him if he was high and was he holding out on him – 

And when he finally got back to the throne room the shadows were long, and Fen was crying. “I betrayed you again – you and Eliot. I – should’ve told you.” 

Margo was looking at her with intense focus and kindness. It made Quentin remember the times she’d looked at him like that, and it made him feel safe, even though there was no reason to feel safe, not now, or, indeed, ever. 

“We’ve had a lot going on, Fen.” Margo took Fen’s hands in her own. They looked at each other and Quentin saw – love there. Respect, too. He wondered if either of them knew it. “You have to take the throne.” 

Fen took a step backwards. She was pale. “No – we can – we can do something else, we can stop Ru another way, what do Questing Beasts know anyway?” 

“I don’t like this. Story.” The Monster said from behind Quentin. Greasy breath on his neck. “Too many people. Tell me about Hagrid again.” 

_I don’t like it either,_ Quentin thought. _What the fuck is happening?_

The Monster’s hands were clammy when they touched him. Familiar, too. Quentin bit his lip, the patch of skin calloused and bitter under his teeth. 

“Margo...?” he asked. 

She ran her hands through her hair. “You’re going to have to look after Quentin, too,” she said, very seriously, to Fen. “Make him eat.” 

**

Margo let them depose her. She let them brand her. She smelt her own flesh, charring. She bit her tongue until it bled. She didn’t look at them – Fen, Quentin. The pity or pain in their eyes would be fucking unbearable. It would be like they wanted her to comfort them. 

She’d thought holding onto her kingdom had taken all her courage. It hadn’t: leaving it behind was even harder. Giving it to Fen – even though, after all this time, she trusted Fen. 

She let herself rage as she was dragged from the room. She didn’t know what she was saying, but it felt good to shout. The pain blurred her focus; she wasn’t completely sure how she got to the castle doors. 

Quentin was there, fussing around her. He gave her supplies: water, food. Too much to carry. His hands were shaking. His face – she thought at first her vision was still blurred at the edges from the pain, but she realised he was screwing it up with the effort not to cry.

An epic quest through the desert. _At least I won’t have to look after anyone when I’m there._

She gripped him by the front of his shirt, which sent a throb of pain down to her elbow. Jolted him towards her. He flailed a bit. “Margo...” 

“Daddy,” she corrected him, keeping her voice very soft. “I’d better find you in one piece when I get back here, or you won’t be able to sit down for a month.” 

He bit his lip. Almost – humour there, somewhere behind the tears. A shadow of his old self. “Yes, Daddy,” he said, very softly, and she – kissed him, because why the fuck not. Because his mouth was soft and yielding, and it would be the last tender thing she’d get to do for a long time. 

**

The Monster woke the castle at five am. He was – trying to claw his way out of his skin. Quentin could see it on his face, the desperation, the feeling that his body was wrong, wrong, wrong. That everything was too much, that it had to change _now._

“We have to. Find him. The god that has my b-body. Now. Now, no more waiting.” 

Quentin staggered out of bed, feeling hollowed out. It was familiar, that sensation: that he had nothing left to give, and he had to keep giving, anyway. 

He needed Margo to come back; he didn’t know how much longer he could distract the Monster. 

He ended up giving him liqueur, trying calm him. They passed a bottle of blackcurrant liqueur back and forth, while the Monster pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and complained that the dawn was trying to slice his eyeballs open; and it wasn’t _fair_ , not when he’d killed Iris already. 

Quentin thought, suddenly, of Teddy, of waking before the sun rose, of the smell of soil from the garden, and the bitter tang of herbs, of holding the dense warm body against his own, and knowing there would be no more sleep. Teddy scrambling out of his arms, running, half-dressed into the dew-wet grass. Quentin – _ached_. It was so far away. 

The Monster passed out. Quentin considered lying down next to him, but he stumbled out from under the table. Fen was searching the castle for toys or trinkets that might distract the Monster: he found her in the corridor, sleeves rolled up, searching through a trunk. 

Quentin hadn’t eaten anything, liqueur sloshed around his stomach, his head throbbed. He’d thought he’d felt lost before but – 

It was nothing to being without Margo. 

“Should the High King be doing this?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his mouth. 

“Why not?” Fen pulled out a long stick, from the top of which sprouted a collection of brightly coloured ribbons. “Do you think he’d like this?” 

Quentin looked at it dubiously. “What’s it for?” 

“You hit men with them to get them out of bed on the morning of the harvest festival.” 

“You –?”

Fen raised her eyebrows. “Well, you don’t hit them _hard_. It barely hurts. Don’t you have traditions like that on Earth?” 

“I mean. Probably?” Quentin bit his lip. “But I don’t think hitting the Monster with it is going to help.” 

“No, I know.” Fen sighed, sorting through the chest, and took out a wooden sword, a small toy train (clearly from Earth), a helmet and five rubber balls. “If we ever have dignitaries with children, we’ll have to remember to get some better toys.” 

“Kids always like playing with the weirdest stuff.” Quentin balanced one of the balls in his hand. “Sometimes you make them a fully functional tiny bakery and they don’t give a shit, and sometimes you put some dry leaves in a sock and they won’t sleep without it.” 

Fen snorted. “I remember my little brother carried a bread roll that looked a bit like a face around until it went green and we had to hide it. It wasn’t like he didn’t have proper toys. Knife-makers make a good living.” 

“I made Te...” Quentin stopped. When had he last spoken that name? Maybe to his Dad. God. There was too much to hold in his head. He thought he’d lost his mind even more if he let in his other life: but he dreamt about it. And they were good dreams. The kind of dreams it hurt to wake up from. 

“Who?” Fen was smoothing the ribbons, not looking at him. 

“No one.” 

Fen shut the chest with a snap. She stared into his face in a way that – was too much. Like she was rubbing his skin with both hands. Or digging into him with her thumbs like he was bread-dough. His eyes watered; he hadn’t found eye contact this hard in _years_ – it was the stress, he guessed. _Get a fucking grip on yourself, Coldwater._

“I lost a child,” Fen said. 

“I know.” Quentin rubbed his fingers over the rough material of his pants. 

“You look how I feel, when I think about her.” 

“I didn’t lose a child.” 

“Didn’t you?” Fen sat on the chest, playing idly with the toy train. 

“Teddy lived longer than I did; he had grandchildren. I didn’t lose him, he lost me. When he should have, when I was old.” The words came out like a story, like he’d rehearsed them, but he hadn’t said them aloud before, not like that. 

“But you miss him.” 

“Aren’t you going to ask – how it happened? How I had a kid and watched him grow?” 

Fen shook her head. “Anything can happen. Especially to you.” 

Quentin swallowed. He wondered if he was ever going to stop feeling mildly nauseous at all times. “That’s terrifying.” 

“And you miss him.” 

“I miss...” What did he miss? The familiarity of his house. Looking over at the Eliot sleeping beside him. The patterns of his life. Sharing a space: quiet, knowing exactly what would happen next. A child, and the memories of that child: fond reminiscences writing over the arguments and sleepless nights. “I feel so alone now,” Quentin said at last. 

“Me too,” Fen said. Her voice rough with emotion. Quentin wanted to – comfort her somehow. But he didn’t know what to say: they looked at one another, and then looked away. 

“I don’t think any of this stuff will help.” Quentin ran his hands though his hair. “Good idea though.” 

A crack – the Monster loomed over him. This was exactly how he’d woken Quentin that morning, too, suddenly filling all of Quentin’s senses. He could barely comprehend that anything else existed. The smell of blackcurrant, sweat, bile. 

It was true: he felt so alone. But this was the future he’d mapped out for himself: just him and the Monster, forever. Maybe that was what he was supposed to give. 

The Monster’s voice was plaintive as he said, “Everything hurts, make it stop.”

**

They drank more: Quentin didn’t have a solution. And he needed dulled edges, muted colours. They lay on a carpeted floor in a room in the east wing: a fire had been lit, crackled gently. It could have been cosy. Wasn’t. 

“I thought I’d. Prefer it,” the Monster said. Hands splayed, fingers ticking against one another. A very un-Eliot gesture. 

“Prefer what?” Quentin couldn’t feel his tongue. From the blackcurrant? Maybe he’d go blind next. Maybe that would be OK. 

“You. Without M-m-margo.” 

“Yeah?” God, he missed Margo. Thrumming through him: the hope that she’d succeed. The fear, far greater, a huge dark ocean. And another, shameful part of him murmuring: _I want Daddy!_ He remembered – El holding him, containing him, calling him ‘baby’; his face hidden in the warmth of Margo’s breasts; hiding and being held. _I just want to feel safe,_ Quentin thought. _What am I, a baby deer?_

“So you’d stop. Paying attention to her. You spend too much – time. With her.” The Monster rubbed Eliot’s face, pressed pale fingers against his lip. Quentin wondered if his mouth was numb too. He felt far more concerned about damaging Eliot’s taste-buds than his own. 

“Now you have me all to yourself.” Quentin surprised himself by the gentleness in his voice. He could relate to wanting someone to yourself. The bottomless desire for their attention. He wasn’t proud of that part of himself, but. He knew what it was like. Raw, painful: full of longing and need. 

“No.” 

“You don’t?” 

“You are.” He sighed. Lips moving: Quentin could feel his frustration with the limitations of words. “You are more inside when she’s not here.” 

Quentin tried to sit up. It felt difficult to do anything, to move any of his limbs. He didn’t think he was drunk; it was inertia. He recognised, from a distance, his depression. Had no way to follow any of the steps on his care plan. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You don’t –” He flailed his hands, huffing through his nose. “You’re playing the – the Sad Game. The Sad About – About Quentin Game. I don’t like it. It’s stupid.” 

_The Sad About Quentin Game._ God. Quentin reached for the liqueur bottle, realised it was empty. “It _is_ stupid.” 

“So you’ll – do something else?” 

“What do you want to do?” As he said it, Quentin realised that this was invariably a terrible question to ask. Never allow the Monster to come up with ideas. 

The Monster twisted Eliot’s face into an unreadable expression. “I’m. Everything is – hot inside. I want to find – find the rest of myself. Or hurt someone.” Paused, hands flailing. “Right now, no waiting.” 

_Hot inside_. Quentin knew what that was like. The pressure mounting inside him. Right now, he was seriously considering just letting the Monster hurt him. Get it over with, no consequences to anyone else. But. Margo would be really mad at him. Eliot, too. 

This needed to end. 

“Why don’t we make something explode?” Quentin asked. He could hear his own voice – that tone he’d never used before, wheedling and hopeful, that he’d developed around the Monster. “Does that sound fun?” 

**

He ended up hurt anyway. He lay among the sharp stones below the castle walls: pain washed through him, nauseating, bitter. His body trembled, sweated, cold and hot at the same time. Blackness pressed against his eyelids but didn’t sweep him away. He buffeted against it, hoping it would take him. Imagined himself erased, brushed away. 

Quentin breathed. Ribs: perhaps bruised. Blood on his face. His wrist – his wrist hurt the most. Trapped under his body. He was afraid to move it. For a moment, he could think of nothing other than the pain. He’d broken his wrist before, but this pain felt like nothing else. Sharp, molten, frightening. 

“I broke him.” 

He still cleaved towards that voice. Eliot’s voice. Now, in the midst of pain, it seemed soothing. An anchor. 

“Don’t be broken, Quentin. Don’t be a – be a baby. Be fixed.” 

That face, peering into his own. Quentin wasn’t completely sure how he’d been hurt. He’d had the fabulous idea to practise battle magic on glass bottles, old crates. He remembered how the Monster had laughed when he’d made the first one explode: and how much better he was at the game than Quentin. Then he’d pissed off the Monster – his mind rejected the blur of pain and colour between the Monster’s anger and this moment, on the ground. 

“My wrist.” The words didn’t come out as distinctly as Quentin expected them to. 

“There’s glass in your face.” The Monster said it like having glass in his face was a peculiar affectation.

He tried to sit up. A wave of nauseating pain; he gagged on bile, forced himself the rest of the way upright. His wrist looked – looked – worse than he’d been expecting. Swollen, contorted. Fuck. If he couldn’t use his hand, he couldn’t – do magic, he’d be even more helpless – 

The Monster saw it too. “Oh.” Head tilted. “It hurts?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why don’t I – why isn’t it funny when you hurt?” 

Quentin really wanted to answer that, but while his brain had become very, very good at compartmentalising recently, all it seemed capable of doing right now was telling him how fucked up his wrist was. 

“I don’t – Do you think you could fix my wrist, maybe?” 

The Monster sighed. He put his hand very gently on Quentin’s neck. Thumb at his pulse-point. His eyes meeting Quentin’s were like raw wounds: wet, vivid. Then he moved his other hand, flicked a finger, and – oh, the pain was a wave, his body thrashed with it, his mind empty, erasing itself. Then it diminished, until he could see around the edges of the pain, and then a wide, delicious relief. 

His clothes were soaked with sweat. The Monster still had his hand on Quentin’s throat. “My body used to – touch yours. We would touch and touch and it would feel... good.” 

Quentin gagged, threw up bile and blackcurrant onto the grass. Swallowed; managed to form words. “That wasn’t – us. That was another place.” 

“It was here. This skin – remembers your skin. I wake up hot and – and stiff. That didn’t happen before.” They were nose to nose. Quentin wanted to draw back, wanted to hide under the stones, wished he had been ground down to nothing by the Monster’s rage. “Why don’t I like hurting you?” 

“I don’t know.” Quentin was surprised by the steadiness of his voice, its gentleness. “Maybe because we’re friends? Friends don’t usually like hurting each other.” 

“Do – friends like touching each other’s skin?” 

The answer to this question was incredibly important. He’d – He’d be even more impossibly fucked if he got it wrong. But all he could say was, “Not usually.” 

“Then you and – and this body weren’t friends?” 

Quentin dug the nails of his good hand into his palm. Blood was trickling from a cut on his head. “Not like you and me are friends.” 

“Are we b-better at being friends?” There was hope in his voice: he was keenly interested in the answer. 

“Just different.” Quentin tensed as he spoke, waiting for the inevitable fall-out. Wondered what limbs would be broken next, and what that pain would make him agree to. 

But the Monster was quiet for a long time. Thinking. Then he said, “W-will you help me find my real parts soon, friend?” 

Quentin felt – indescribable relief. Like he’d been walking on a tightrope and suddenly found solid ground under his feet. “Yes. As soon as I can.” 

**

Fen helped take the glass out of his face, washed the cut. She winced at the bruising and gave him a draught she said was very good for pain. He was still trembling, couldn’t seem to stop. He went to bed to sleep it all off, but instead lay thinking about absent friends: Julia, Alice, and even Kady, Penny, Josh. How they’d been left to deal with the library and Irene McAllister, and how he barely thought about them, how his world had become so small that all he could see was the Monster. 

And Eliot, and Margo. 

God, he missed them both so much. 

He lay looking at the bruises on his wrist. His fingers hurt when he bent them. Wished he could sleep. Wished he – could stop existing. Could fold himself up and vanish. Wished everyone would forget about him, as though he’d never been in the world at all. 

He knuckled his fingers against his eyes. He wanted to talk to Julia. He wanted Julia’s ferocity, Alice’s logic, Eliot’s kindness. He didn’t know what to do. 

_Eliot wouldn’t want you to kill the Monster._

The thought came from nowhere. 

The Monster was cruel, capricious. Tortured him while wearing the face of someone he loved. And yet – 

He’d been dismantled before he’d had a chance to _live._ The gods had looked at him and said he was wrong. They’d taken him apart. Locked him away. Quentin understood why he wanted revenge. And Quentin was sure the Monster could be – more than he was right now. Better. 

Eliot always made Quentin feel like he could be better. He spoke to him like he thought Quentin was already good. Kind. Loving. And it made Quentin want to be those things. He wanted to be the person Eliot saw. And that person – that person would try to help the Monster. 

Quentin got out of bed. He took the candles from their holders around the room and set them in a circle, and sat in the centre. It was kind of weird to have to pray if you wanted to get in touch with your best friend; but on the other hand, in Fillory, prayer had to be more reliable than WhatsApp. 

He breathed. He thought about Julia: the way she said his name, her intense concentration, her fury. He breathed in wax and smoke. He smelt trees. 

His eyes were closed, but when Julia put her hand on his cheek, he knew who it was. He wasn’t afraid. He felt – a warmth spreading through his body. A sense of being known – of being loved. 

Honestly, that feeling was so new it made him kind of anxious. 

He tried to swallow it down. 

“Oh, Q,” Julia said, running her thumb over his jaw before she let him go. And the way she said that was very familiar: resigned, a little sad. “You’re being so strong for him.” 

Quentin didn’t want to hear that. It was too much. He thought maybe Julia felt it, because she tilted her head, and looked at him with eyes the seemed, now, to contain flickering gold light. “Why did you call me here?” 

For a moment he didn’t know. He wanted someone to hold him. To be with someone he loved. The pain radiated over his skull. The words came unbidden:“I don’t want the Monster to be – to be destroyed. He never had a chance, Jules. He was powerless, in so many ways.” 

Julia had a different way of looking at him: as though she saw him as he was now, and as he had been, and as he would be. And as though she accepted all of it. It made him feel very small, like he was so insignificant she could only see him through a magnifying glass. 

But she was also Julia and she still thought she knew better than he did. “He killed – gods, Q. We can’t let that happen. We can’t forgive. You know what happened with Umber. And nobody even liked Umber.” 

He hadn’t known how much he’d wanted her support until now. “W-Who says you can’t forgive? Isn’t that what being a god is supposed to be about? Being better than us petty humans?” 

Julia sighed. “Not really. We’re pretty fucked up, too. I mean, you met Bacchus.” 

Quentin rubbed his forehead: winced when he touched the wound. Fuck. “OK, but. You’re better than the rest of them, aren’t you?” 

Julia sat down beside the candles he’d used. “These are nice, you know, but you don’t need them: you just need to think about me really hard.” She touched Q’s forehead, and the pain eased at once. “I... I don’t know how to save him, even if I wanted to. I don’t know how to destroy him either. They’re afraid – the other gods. And they hate being afraid.” 

“Are you afraid?” 

She smiled, and within the smile was a hint of the Julia he knew. “No. I’m not afraid of men like him.” 

“That’s it though. He’s not a ‘man like him’. He’s – he’s just learning how to exist. He isn’t anything yet.” 

“He’s a murderer.” Julia’s voice was very gentle. 

Fuck. Quentin though of the way the Monster laughed when he frightened Fen. How his own body was bruised in multiple places. Quentin wanted Eliot back. He wanted to – let go. 

And yet. He remembered, too, the way the Monster gripped his hand like he – like he trusted him. The way he’d looked into Quentin’s face after he’d hurt him. 

“There has to be a way. What if he didn’t have powers? What if he was just a – a person?” 

“Like Reynard,” Julia pressed her fingertips against her lips. 

Quentin caught his breath.“Yeah. Maybe like Reynard.” 

“He’s very strong. Reynard was weak.” Julia looked into the distance, eyes full of the flickering candlelight. 

“Margo’s going to –” Quentin began. 

“I know. I’ve been keeping tabs. I wish I could – be more directly involved.” Julia sighed. “Perhaps there is something I can do. If you can get him out of Eliot’s body.” 

Quentin’s stomach jolted. He – was suddenly terrified. He hadn’t been able to imagine saving Eliot. He hadn’t been able to believe Margo would come back. It was frightening to hear Julia talk about these things like they were possible. 

“She’ll be so fucking mad at me.” 

Julia – snorted. Didn’t sound at all like a goddess. Then her composure returned. She touched her thumb to Quentin’s chin. Another pain faded. “I’m leaving you with the rest of the bruises,” she said. “I’m sorry. But you need them. You can’t forget what he is.” 

She kissed his forehead, quick and impossibly warm. “Try to stay whole, Q. We need you.” 

Then she was gone and he was – hollowed out. Lonely. Exhausted. And faced with the impossible. 

“Thanks, Jules.” 

**

Margo got back – dusty, dirty. Sand in places you wouldn’t believe. 80’s hits jangling through her mind, half-remember snatches coming to her lips. But alive. Her axes a promise. 

Moonlight fell against the doors. 

Through the back entrance, whispering a password to the guard. 

Up the winding staircase, keeping her tread light. Thought about going straight to the throne room. Waited. Reconsidered. Up again, up to the floor where she slept. 

Her room. A shape asleep on the bed. 

Quentin was – bruised. Paler and thinner than she remembered. Snoring through his open mouth. Litter of plates, dirty clothes, bottles on the floor around the bed. Smell of sweat, of alcohol. 

She felt a dart of – rage. She worked so fucking hard, and this was the best Quentin could do? 

But: the bruises. The way he was lying, curled in, trying to protect himself. Unable to protect himself. 

She sat down in front of him, trying not to startle him. But he was startled anyway. He jolted upright, eyes wide, gasping. She caught his flailing hands in hers. “Puppy,” she said. 

Then he was clinging to her, chin tucked into the crook of her neck. “You’re here, you’re back – Did you – Do you need anything? Can I get you a – a drink? A sandwich?” 

“Shut up,” she said, pressing her lips to his forehead. He made a little sound of protest in response. 

And – honestly, she could probably use a sandwich. Or a nice cool glass of dry Riesling. But she – was here, and somehow this terrible, musty room, with this greasy boy in her arms felt – more important than anything else. 

“Lie down again, Daddy’s got a bed-time story for you,” she said. 

He snorted. He was smiling, looking at her like – she was a gift. Like he’d never expected to see her again. And he was compliant and soft as he settled into her arms, and she began to tell her story. It changed as she spoke, her story. Became less jagged. Made more sense. But it felt good to tell it, like this was the first of many repetitions. 

Quentin listened, looking up at her with such – adoration in his eyes. And damn right she deserved this level of adoration. She tangled her fingers into his hair as she spoke. “And I said to him, ‘New world order, gonna suck for you.’”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence warnings apply here. Also Quentin has some internalised ableism.

Margo was trying extremely hard to be calm. It didn’t come naturally to her. 

Quentin was clearly trying very hard not to cry, or freak out, or hit his head against a wall. That didn’t seem to come easily to him, either. He’d been sitting next to her following her morning meeting in the throne room, but now he was standing by the window, rocking a little on his heels. 

His face was tilted toward the light: mottled skin, purple and yellow. Margo asked, “How can you – how can you want to save something that would do that to you?”

“He didn’t – didn’t mean to.” 

“Do you know what that sounds like?” Her voice came out slow and smooth as a glacier. And as cold. When she’d seen Fen this morning, Fen had screamed and hugged her, and Margo had felt the tension inside her ease a little. She’d believed they could do this. And now? 

Quentin was losing his fucking mind again. “I mean – he hurt me. He was angry. And frustrated. And he lashed out, because that’s all he knows how to do. And then he was sorry.” 

“Because he’d broken his toy. Not because he didn’t want to hurt you.” 

He chewed his lip hard enough to bruise. “I – I’ve never been a good kid. I never slept. Mom – left, because I was too much. I screamed when they took me outside. I screamed when they dressed me. I hid when I saw other kids. And then I got older and I got – _worse_. I couldn’t fit in, I – I couldn’t make myself into the shape I needed to be. The shape everyone else was already. I was so lonely. I still didn’t sleep. I stayed up – writing notes. About how I – needed to die. And I – And I was _lucky_ , because people gave me time. My dad gave me time, he encouraged me. So did Julia. They wouldn’t – let me go.” 

He was folding in on himself, like his stomach hurt. 

“So you were kind of a pain, and your mom couldn’t deal with it. That sucks, Q. It does. But _you didn’t kill anyone._ You didn’t hurt anyone.” Margo noticed he’d lost that glassy, closed-down look he’d had for weeks. He was passionate again. _About the fucking Monster._

“I did. My dad had – bruises from where I’d bite him.” 

“You were a kid.” Margo gripped Quentin’s hands. They were cold, bony. “It’s not the same, puppy. It really isn’t.” 

Quentin shook his head. “He’s not a kid. He’s ancient. But he’s – he’s never been given a chance to be anything more than a Monster.” 

“He has! He could have stopped any time!” The glacier in her throat was melting. She wanted to shake Quentin. She squeezed his hands, felt the tendons compress from the power of her grip. 

“I spoke to Julia,” Quentin said. “She’ll help us, if she can. She’ll put him in a different body. He won’t have any powers.” 

“He’ll still be a murderer.” Margo stood up, letting go of Q. “I don’t know if you’re – crazy, or you’re getting empathy wrong, or – what. I’m scared.” 

Quentin was still talking, looking away from her, “He’ll have a chance to – be something else. The gods will watch him. Julia will watch him. He’ll be trapped, without powers, without magic. It’s a – punishment, too.” 

“When did you come up with this plan? Before he hurt you like that, or after?” Margo hated how vulnerable Quentin looked. And how – how he would not listen to her! When she was right! When she’d worked so hard to save Eliot, to save Quentin, to _fix this_. He was fucking everything up!

“It doesn’t matter.” He sat, abruptly, on one of the overly ornate and aggressively uncomfortable throne room chairs. “Margo. Eliot would – would want us to try.” 

“No he wouldn’t.” Margo slammed her hands into the table. “He’s the one who wanted us to kill him.” 

“To save me,” Quentin said. Voice soft. “But he didn’t know – He didn’t know what the Monster was like.” 

“He’ll be so glad to be back with us that I don’t think he’ll give a shit what we did to get him here.”

“I want him back, Margo. I... I hate this. _I hate it._ But I... Eliot’s never wanted to hurt anyone, not if he can help it. He’s always made me want to... try harder. I don’t think he’d want us to kill someone if we have another option. I want him to be...” Quentin stared at the floor. “I don’t want to be ashamed of myself.” 

Margo wasn’t sure – not completely sure – if Quentin was right about Eliot, or if he was idealising a version of Eliot that hadn’t ever existed. But at the same time, she was aware of Eliot’s implacable, stubborn kindness. How she was the one who needed to be ruthless. How Eliot would do something brave and self-sacrificing and say, in the same breath, that he wasn’t brave, and was only acting out of self-interest. She looked at her little Quentin, trying so hard to be good for Eliot.

If he were here, he’d probably look at Quentin and say, “OK, let’s try,” and she’d want to knock their heads together. 

“What the fuck are we going to do with the Monster? Teach him softball? Buy him a bike?” she asked. 

“I don’t know.”

Margo sat down on the table, so she didn’t have to expose her ass to the ridiculous carved chairs. 

“Eliot’s our first priority, right? If we have to kill the Monster to save him, we will.” 

Quentin nodded. “Eliot, always.” He looked up at her, brimming with love and hope and naivety. “Always Eliot first.” 

“OK.” Margo rubbed her forehead. “So do you have a plan? You and Julia?” 

**

The plan was pretty much as terrible as all of their plans. 

“You’d better not get me killed,” Kady said, when she, Penny 23, Alice and Josh blipped into existence in the throne room. “I’ve got a lot of balls in the air right now.” 

“We’re saving Eliot,” Margo said firmly. “Don’t be stupid and you won’t die.” She’d been keeping a lower profile around Whitespire since she’d been banished, but she still looked regal as fuck, Quentin thought, with her axes, glaring at everyone. 

“You could thank us for showing up.” Josh looked like he was going to hug her: Quentin intercepted him. He could handle a few hugs, especially if it stopped Margo from smacking someone. 

Josh smelt like weed and Twinkies. It made home feel even further away than usual. “I nearly died,” he told Quentin, as he rubbed Quentin’s shoulder. “Because I’m a werewolf, but I...” 

“We don’t have time for touching moments,” Margo cut in. She stood up – as she passed Quentin her hand rested, brief and proprietorial, on his neck. Quentin felt himself relax just a tiny bit. 

“Where is he?” Alice asked. “The Monster.” 

The plan needed six magicians, including a traveller, and mostly involved disorientating the Monster, using the axes, and Julia appearing at exactly the right time. 

“You really stayed up late figuring out the logistics of that one,” Penny said once she’d told them. “Air-tight. No moving parts at all.” 

“I haven’t noticed you turning up with any useful tactics on how to save Eliot,” Margo snapped. “I haven’t noticed you caring.” 

“You think we haven’t been busy? You think the library hasn’t been fucking shit up?” Kady snapped. “We’ve been saving lives.” 

Quentin felt – dizzy. A little far away from everything. He’d left the Monster with Fen and he worried about both of them. The sniping washed past him, until Alice drew him aside. Her familiar, cat-like face, her sharp-eyed gaze, sent a wave of longing through him. He missed her. 

“You don’t... look good.” She sounded critical, not worried, but Quentin knew that one hid the other. 

“I know.” He was still bruised. And he knew he looked thin, his complexion greyish: he didn’t think about it much: there wasn’t anything he could do. 

“I’m glad you’re with Margo.” Alice’s voice was sharply cheerful. “I wouldn’t have... Expected that, but I’m glad you have someone.” 

“I’m not...” 

But Alice was still talking. “We were friends, before. I think that worked for us. Can we do that again, Q?” 

Quentin’s mind was stuttering over the idea that he might be dating Margo. Sure, he’d slept in her bed every night for weeks now, but... That didn’t mean they were dating, did it? It’d just felt so natural to be with her, he hadn’t thought what it looked like. 

She was his Daddy: when he thought of her that way, their relationship made sense. Didn’t need any other words. But he couldn’t say that to Alice. 

“I’d like to be your friend,” he said, realising that he would. That he’d missed her – as much as he’d felt able to miss anyone right now.

“If we survive this, maybe we should catch a movie,” Alice said. “Get a sundae.” 

Quentin laughed. “Get high and have a picnic.” 

“That sounds awful,” Alice said, looking over as Kady clapped her hands together. 

“OK,” Kady was saying. “Enough about the fucking axes – I’ll show you the battle spell–”

**

“Undo me, sweetie?” Margo asked Quentin, sliding her feet out of their shoes. 

His fingers were warm against her skin, a little uncertain. He was clumsy as he unlaced the back of her dress. 

“I’m so fucking anxious I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin,” Margo said. “So I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.” 

“I can’t think about it.” Quentin folded his arms. “It’s like there’s a wall in my head. I can’t believe tomorrow’s going to happen at all. I think it’s a coping mechanism.” 

“Mm. You know another good coping mechanism?” Margo stretched, free of the constrains of the dress. “Sex.” 

Quentin squirmed, flushed. Which was... A pretty usual response. But she asked anyway, “You OK, puppy?” 

“Alice asked if we were dating.” 

Margo snorted. “She’s pretty dumb for a smart girl.” 

“We are... You know.” Quentin gestured vaguely at Margo, in her underwear, and the bed. 

Margo took a step toward him. “You don’t think you’re my boyfriend, do you?” 

Quentin shivered a little, maybe in response to her closeness, or to the harsh tone of her voice. “No?” He swallowed. “I just, um. What are we doing?”

Fucking Christ. Now, he was choosing to freak out about this? When she really needed to spank him, get off, and maybe get some sleep? 

“You know what we’re doing.” Margo sighed. She sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re here, just as much as me. We’re friends. We’re taking care of each other. You call me Daddy.” 

“When you put it like that it, uh. Sounds pretty intimate?” Quentin was rubbing his thumbs over each of his fingers. 

“Do you think I’m dating Eliot?” she asked. 

Quentin shook his head. 

“Well then.” Margo grabbed one of his busy hands. “We’re not like other people. We don’t have to worry about what they think. What we’re doing works for us.”

“I guess I... Sometimes worry about what they think. Or. I wonder what Eliot will think?” 

Margo rubbed her palm against her forehead. Eliot would be so much better at having this conversation: it just made her tired. 

She remember Eliot lying with his head in her lap, at the cottage, at a party. A long time ago, when the world still felt a little safe. She’d been smoothing his soft hair back from his forehead and she’d felt so – content. “This is all I need,” she said, because she was young then, and sometimes things like that slipped out. 

Eliot had raised his eyebrows slightly. “Cuddles on a couch? At a party? You’re setting a low bar.” 

“You’re not happy? You’re not the only one who’d like to be in my lap, you know.” 

“Oh, I know, Bambi.” He laced their fingers together. “I’m really happy right now. But I don’t think anyone can be everything one person needs.” 

“Yeah,” she said, realising she’d known that for a long time, but hadn’t been able to articulate it. “I will eventually want someone to give me really enthusiastic head. Among other things.” 

Eliot snorted. “And I’ll need some truly intellectually stimulating conversation.” 

She gave his hair a tiny yank. “Yeah, it’s not like you struggle to keep up with me.” 

Margo didn’t think they’d talked about it much more than that. They’d always been really good at understanding each other. 

Whereas Quentin always needed a lot of words. “I’ve been taking care of you,” Margo said. “You – you’ve needed a Daddy, haven’t you?” 

“Will you – will everything change?” 

He was nibbling his lip. She sighed, put her arm around him. He relaxed a little into her touch, like he always did. “Not all at once, not if you don’t want it to, puppy. Relationships evolve. How we are together when Eliot’s back might be different, but...”

“When Eliot’s back,” Quentin broke in, his voice soft. “It will work, won’t it?” 

“I won’t let it not work.” Her stomach roiled; she gritted her teeth. The possibility was there, of it not working. Of course it was. But she wasn’t going to let that happen. Wasn’t going to let that be an option. They were going to get Eliot back. Tomorrow. 

She and her Sorrows, and the dumbasses who were going to help her out. It would get done. 

“Me neither.” Quentin sat next to her on the bed. “Margo... I’ve felt so – so scared and hopeless and everything’s – hurt so much. I don’t know how I’d have got through this without you.” 

He sounded so small and vulnerable she could barely stand it. 

“I know, I’m fabulous,” she said. Then she leant her forehead against his, gripped the back of his neck. Squeezed. “You’re a good puppy.” 

Quentin snorted. Smiling a little. 

She tangled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Tugged, and felt him shiver. He _was_ such a good puppy, so easy and predictable. 

“One day I’d like to tie you up,” she said. “Blindfold you too, maybe. I’d like you on your stomach, your hands bound. I’d like to fuck your little ass with my fingers.” 

His breathing sped up. “Yes, Daddy...” He swallowed. “Will you spank me too?” 

“I don’t know; will you be good?” she nudged at his cheek with her nose. Kissed the warm, scratchy skin. “Maybe I’ll buy a crop. Bruise you properly.” 

Maybe she shouldn’t mention bruising: not after the Monster. But Quentin made a little sound in response: a gasp that was both surprised and pleased. “W-Would Eliot like that?” 

Which was interesting. He rarely brought up Eliot during their play, though Eliot was always there. An absence beside them. 

“I can’t imagine El not liking anything we do, puppy. But having you tied up and eager? He’ll cream his fucking pants.” She licked his ear, just to feel him squirm. “Do you want to eat me out first, or do you want me to spank you first?” 

Quentin wriggled again. How could he still be shy? After all of this? But he was almost cheeky as he said, “Spank me first. You always fall asleep when you come.” 

She pulled his hair. And then she laid him down on his stomach on the bed, face cushioned on his folded forearms, and scraped her nails down his back and sides. She was careful, in the ways she touched him, because he was sensitive to light touches, and drew himself up, tight and tense, the exact opposite of the way she wanted him. But scratches, firm and precise, made him squirm and whimper, loose and needy. 

His skin under her fingers: the long, dark hair on his lower back, the fuzz of his forearms, catching in her nails. The soft hair on his thighs; his ass downy, like the belly-fur of a small animal. The way he arched, keened – in those moments, he belonged to her, and she took him apart, her puppy, her boy, unfolded the pieces of him. The warmth of that buoyed her, potent as a drug. 

She spanked him until he cried, because sometimes he needed to cry. And she liked hurting him: she liked the noises he made. Then he flowed into her arms, and she rocked him, and let him – worship her breasts for as long as he wanted. Nudging and clinging and kissing, nose and mouth and tongue. They were both – animal then, warm and urgent, drawing heat into one another. 

He recovered enough to eat her out, and she fell asleep with him in her arms, one of his legs hooked between her thighs. Her puppy. Her friend. 

**

The woods. The pulse in her chest. The arc of the axe. 

The body. 

“H-he’s going to bleed out,” Quentin said. “He’s...” 

Alice had her arms around Quentin’s shoulders, tugging him away from Eliot. Like – she was afraid of the blood. Of seeing the blood. 

And Margo’s hands were tacky with – 

with copper-smell and red slick and Eliot’s insides. The feeling of the axe grinding into his stomach, the wetness.... Eliot, Eliot... 

She was – she was dropping the axes, she was kneeling by Eliot, pressing, pressing against the wounds. Crying – shouting – didn’t know what she was saying. She could only see the paleness of Eliot’s face, the – absence there – 

Then his eyes – opened. Opened and – 

_Saw her_. Saw her, not the way the Monster had been looking at her all those months, but really _saw her –_

His mouth formed words. She drank them in like she was still in the desert, parched, desperate, watched as he shaped, “Bambi.” 

How long since she’d heard ‘Bambi’? She – 

Pressed harder, harder against the wound. Couldn’t breathe. She thought she was choking. Quentin had – broken away from Alice – kneeling beside her – the – the bottle she’d taken from the Foremost quivering in his hands, the glass crumpling, _melting_ in his fingers – it didn’t seem to be _glass_ any more, but gelatinous liquid... 

“Get that thing _the fuck_ away from Eliot,” she snapped, pressing, pressing, blood oozing, oh _God –_

And then – light, rustle of leaves – Julia – 

Julia’s hands were around Quentin’s and she was – glowing, gasping. Hissing through her teeth like this was _too much_ , like she couldn’t – 

What good was being a goddess if she couldn’t – couldn’t save them? Save Eliot? 

Why hadn’t she shown up earlier? Fucking unreliable – Margo’s head was spinning. 

Julia let go of the strange, crumpled bottle with one hand; her free hand cupped Margo’s. Pressed against the wound. Margo felt the gold glow of magic, a wave passing though her. A feeling like – being on a yacht on a spring day, salt in her hair, taste of the sun – 

“That’ll – hold.” Julia swallowed. “He needs a healer.” 

“Why can’t you fix him?” Margo snapped. 

“The – the Monster.” Both of Julia’s hands were wrapped around the bottle again. Her face – strained, constipated. Afraid. “I’m trying to hold him – he’s – he’s so strong.” 

Margo stared into Eliot’s thin, grey face. Eyes flickering below lids. The blood on her fingers was warm, still, but no more was welling up from the wound. 

Quentin knelt beside her, staring into Eliot’s face. “The centaurs,” he said, his voice calmer than she expected. “They healed me and I was – I was pretty bad.” 

Margo remember bringing Quentin’s ghostly-frail body to those damn horses. How they’d waited and waited for him to wake up, how it had been – intolerable. “We should bring him to a real hospital for people,” she said, imagining – the Brakebills ward. Clean sheets and order. 

“I can get you to the centaurs,” Julia said, like Margo hadn’t spoken. 

“What about –?” Penny began, but Julia had already made the decision, because apparently goddesses didn’t listen to anyone else. 

It wasn’t like travelling Air Penny. 

None of the sharp-bright pressure, no sense of the world collapsing in around them. It wasn’t like portal magic either: they were on a completely different hillside, yet it felt like they hadn’t travelled at all.

Margo felt like all the air had been sucked out of her body. She stared around, looking for – Kady, Alice, someone sensible. But it was just her and Quentin, rearranged on this hillside, above the white hospital tents of the centaurs. 

“She didn’t say goodbye.” Quentin stared at Eliot as he spoke. He was blood-spattered, bruised. He touched Eliot’s cheek, gingerly, like he might break. 

“Fucking deities,” Margo said. “He needs a doctor.” 

“I know.” Quentin’s thumb moved lightly over Eliot’s jaw. “Hang on, El,” he said, standing up. He looked down at Eliot, like he couldn’t bare to leave. “Just hang on,” he whispered, and he was striding briskly down the slope. 

Margo was alone with Eliot on the soft grass. She took her hands carefully off his belly, stroked his cheek instead. Felt his wrist for the pulse – threading weakly against her fingers. Looked at Quentin: he’d reached the tents now, she could see him waving his hands around. 

Her heart was still beating so hard she felt like her eardrums would burst. 

“We’re waiting for a horse,” she told Eliot. “A fucking horse. I’ve got you, El. If you die I am dragging you out of Hades with my teeth so don’t you dare–”

**

Magical surgery sounded – like it ought to be better than ordinary surgery. At least Margo hoped it would be. Magic didn’t always equal better. 

Quentin sat beside her; stood up to answer questions about Eliot; sat down again. Brought her water. Everything was a thousand miles away. She was still in the forest with Eliot, he was bleeding out through her fingers, there was nothing, nothing, she could do... 

“I wonder if Julia...”Quentin trailed off. Tugged at the skin around his cuticles. 

Margo’s teeth hurt from clenching. She shrugged Quentin off when he tried to take her hand. She felt – fragile, and it was fucking embarrassing. And awful. 

“Are you sure those horses know what they’re doing?” she asked Quentin. 

“They fixed me.” He showed her his arm, the wooden shoulder. Knocked against it with his fingers. A hollow sound. 

“How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“I don’t know.” Quentin sucked at his index finger where he’d picked at the skin so much it was bleeding. “He’s going to be OK.” He was rocking slightly, arms wrapped around his chest, trying to keep himself calm. “He’s going to be OK.” 

Margo didn’t argue. She didn’t know how to comfort him now. Just sitting here, not being able to do anything, made her want to scream. 

They waited. 

They waited. 

They waited. Margo was in Ibiza, the hottest summer on record, she and Eliot were holding hands, the most beautiful men in the world were kneeling at their feet, El ran ice-cubs over her throat, ice melted in long rivulets... 

Tears on her face. 

She could barely process what the centaur was saying. Quentin was smile-crying, saying, “When can we see him?” 

He was alive. _He was alive._

**

The centaurs tried to get them to leave Eliot, said he needed to sleep, alone. Margo argued fiercely; Quentin simply didn’t listen. The bed was wide – he could sit at the edge of it without jostling Eliot. It was centaur-height: his feet didn’t touch the ground once he was perched on the edge, and even Eliot looked small against the white sheets. His face was – clammy. Lips slack. And yet – Quentin felt like he recognised this Eliot. Even in sleep, the Monster was the Monster. There was _nothing_ of the Monster here. 

He couldn’t seem to stop trembling. He spread his legs out on the bed, looking at Eliot sleep. He could probably watch Eliot sleep forever. The in-breath, the out-breath. Nothing else he’d ever do would matter as much as this: as saving Eliot, and then watching him sleep. Just being with him. Here, now. The trembling was – probably the adrenaline crash, but it felt a little bit like joy, too. Like no part of him, not his body and not his mind, could really believe this was happening. That Eliot was back. 

Margo had another bed brought into the room. “You need to sleep, puppy,” she said, and Quentin wondered how much time had passed, how long he’d been sitting here, watching. It didn’t seem long at all, but Margo seemed a little less shell-shocked, as though shouting at centaurs was part of her healing process. 

“I’m not tired.” Quentin wasn’t sure if this was true or not. He was a kite, his body tethered far away on a very long string.

A human brought a tray of food: white cheese and brown bread, a fish-scented broth. She inclined her head to Margo. Neither of them ate. 

Margo sat on the bed, on Eliot’s other side. “I can’t believe I –” She shuddered, suddenly, a tremor running through her whole body. “I felt the axe go in, and I...” 

Then she was crying. Quentin reached for her hands. “I know,” he said. “I know.” 

It was so rare for Margo to cry – Quentin felt a little ashamed. Because he’d cried. God, how many times had he cried while Margo held him? And he’d never returned the favour, never even thought _how much_ she was holding together... He slipped off his side of the bed, and went to her. She was so small against him; it was so hard to believe that Margo’s narrow body could contain the entire force of her personality. He brushed back her hair, and along the kite-string another emotion appeared: a feeling of – inadequacy. 

Not joy, not hope. Just a familiar feeling of uselessness. He’d let Margo take care of him for so long and now all he had to offer was wrapping his arms around her. How could that be enough? 

He rested his chin against the top of her head. “It’s OK,” he said, although it wasn’t. And then he felt something – break, like he was rushing back into the confines of his body, and the world was suddenly so much more than he’d known. He – gasped – 

He felt _so small._ He wanted to hide; he wanted to be held; he wanted to be with Eliot, the Eliot he’d known for all those years, who knew all his embarrassing desires and broken pieces, and loved him anyway. 

The words came – tumbling on top of each other. “Daddy,” he whispered. “You did so well, Daddy, I’m so fucking proud of you. Do you know how – how _awed_ I am by you? I don’t know what would have happened without you. We wouldn’t be here without you, Eliot and I, we – we owe you _everything...”_

“That’s been true for years, dummy,” Margo said into his chest. “You’d be completely fucked without me.” 

But she sounded – almost surprised.

“I know.” Quentin’s throat burned. He rested his head against the top of Margo’s, breathed in the smell of her sweaty hair. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. His neck started to hurt, but – it didn’t matter. 

“Now, puppy.” Margo sat up, wiped her eyes. “You’ve gotta eat something. And then sleep.” 

“You too, Daddy.” Quentin nuzzled his nose into her shoulder, the words feeling warm and _right_ in his mouth. 

They both startled when they heard Eliot mumble. His eyes blinked – opened. “I thought I was Daddy.”


	6. Chapter 6

Margo woke herself by sneezing. Eliot and Quentin were lying on the bed across from her, Quentin snoring softly through his open mouth. Margo sneezed twice more, and sat up. Her shoulders, chest and throat ached; her head spun. There was snot on her upper lip. 

She sneezed again. 

“Fuck!” 

“Gesundheit.” She could see the glint of Eliot’s eyes in the warm dark. 

She sniffed, rubbed her face with the back of her hand. Gross. “Go back to sleep.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Are you in pain?” She swung her feet out of bed. She needed – tissues, a drink, aspirin. 

“I’m sort of floaty.” One of Eliot’s hands was resting on Quentin’s side, as though he was reassuring himself that Quentin was still there. “It’s nice.” 

Margo shoved aside the curtains around their cubicle, found the cart of bed sheets and towels that stood outside. Nothing really resembling a tissue. She moped her face with a pillowcase and poured herself a glass of water. 

“Do you want anything?” she asked Eliot. “I have no problem with waking those centaurs up.” 

“I know you don’t, Bambi.” She could see Eliot’s smirk: familiar and impossible. “You should rest.” 

It was – wonderful, talking to Eliot. Part of her had thought it would never happen again. She wanted to tell him all the things she’d been holding inside for months and – she wanted to talk, like they were right now. Like nothing had happened. 

But. But she’d definitely been struck by some horrific Fillorian plague: her head spun, she was producing more mucus than a hagfish; swallowing hurt. _This is fucking ridiculous. I achieved – basically all my goals, and now I’m going to die from some disgusting epidemic._

She ended up half-sitting next to Eliot, breathing through her open mouth, while he stroked her hair. There weren’t any comfortable positions in bed. “No one has suffered as I have suffered,” she murmured, tipping her hot face against his palm. 

Eliot snorted. “I know, darling. Struck down by the common cold. The indignity.” 

“This is death, not a cold.” She rubbed her nose with the pillowcase and discovered it was already tacky with snot. She might as well give up on living now; she couldn’t imagine allowing it to become even more unbearable. 

A centaur appeared shortly after the sun rose. He frowned at the three of them sharing a bed. “The patient is in a delicate condition. You must let him rest.” 

“The patient likes things the way they are.” Eliot’s voice was gravelly, but he sounded remarkably like himself. Margo could almost... pretend none of the last five months had happened. That she’d never stabbed Eliot in the stomach. That time had simply rolled back to a place where they were safe. 

She sneezed into the pillowcase again. Safe apart from her imminent demise, of course. 

Quentin, who’d slept through all of Margo’s sneezes and misery, rolled over, and blinked at the centaur. He trembled, suddenly, an all-body shiver, and reached for Eliot’s hand. Eliot squeezed it, and Quentin’s face drained of tension: he wore an expression of relief and happiness that Margo wasn’t sure she’d ever seen on before.

It was all very touching. But. “Once you’ve made sure Eliot is healing, I’ll need you to fix me.” Her voice came out like she had a forty-a-day habit. 

The centaur examined Eliot thoroughly, glared at Quentin and Margo, and pronounced Eliot well enough to attempt a light breakfast. “You should keep away from him,” he said to Margo. “The last thing he needs is to catch something from you.” 

She let herself be brought to a tiny cubicle, and drank something very hot and very bitter that made her eyes sting and her nose run even more. The human nurse took her pulse and temperature. She wrapped up in blankets and resolved to quietly waste away alone, since there was no point giving Eliot her terrible ague after she’d gone to so much trouble to save him. 

Although she’d no idea how he’d cope without her. 

After somewhere between ten minutes and half-an-hour, Quentin appeared. He was holding a rabbit. 

“Go away, I’m basically Typhoid Mary.” 

Quentin laughed. “You just have a cold.” 

_Just a cold_ didn’t really cover it. Margo didn’t get colds. Generally speaking, colds were afraid of _her_. Margo glared at him around the linen handkerchief the nurse had given her to replace the pillowcase. 

“Is there anything you want to say to our friends? Or Fen?” 

Margo wasn’t feeling friendly. “Tell Fen not to fuck anything up. And seriously, go away.” 

Quentin shook his head. “We discussed it, and we decided we’ll risk it. We miss you.” 

“You’ll miss me more when I meet my untimely demise. I always thought I’d be killed in single combat. Or maybe sex magic gone awry.” It was hard to get the end of the sentence out around her coughs. 

Quentin put the rabbit down and took her hand. “You’re all sweaty,” he said, gently smoothing back her hair. 

If Quentin was brave enough to insult her and touch her hair without permission, she was definitely in a much diminished state. She sagged into his shoulder. “Why is this happening to me.” 

“Sometimes people get colds when they’ve been stressed for a long time and they finally have a chance to relax.” Quentin said it like it was something everyone knew. 

“I don’t.” Margo sat up again, because leaning on Quentin was making her feel like she couldn’t breathe. Sitting up made her cough. 

“Come on, Daddy.” Quentin squeezed her hand. “We’ll keep you company.” 

“I’m too sick to be anyone’s Daddy,” she protested. 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” He tugged her upright, and she let him. “I’ll look after you.” 

And now Quentin was offering to look after her. Things really had gone horribly wrong. Why did the gods single her out for such suffering? 

** 

Once Margo’s nose stopped running like a faucet, and she settled into a state of mild fever and sore throat, she was able to rest – drift in and out of dozes next to Eliot. The centaurs had capitulated, and provided them with extra beds, but they used them only when they needed cool or space. Quentin was the healthiest, so they sent him on errands, and he facilitated Margo’s ongoing conversation-by-bunny with Fen. 

Margo had thought she’d have so many things to say to Eliot she’d never stop talking, but often they were quiet. She watched him, and Quentin, even when they were asleep. She couldn’t stop – touching Eliot, and Quentin, over and over, like she just couldn’t believe they were both there. Being so obviously needy made her feel vulnerable, itchy, and she didn’t like it, but the only cure seemed to be to – touch Eliot again. She’d have felt more comfortable if this had been foreplay, but. It was just reassurance. 

The other thing that made her itchy was – the way Quentin and Eliot kept looking at each other. And looking away. And beginning to say something. And stopping. 

They shared space on the bed, basically sitting on one another and yet – They managed to be _awkward_ about it. Eliot stayed under the covers; Quentin on top of them. They apologised when they bumped into one another, pretending they _weren’t_ spending all their time trying to be as physically close as possible.

She remembered Quentin miserably saying that Eliot wouldn’t want him. And here was Eliot, looking at Quentin like he was the whole world. When they slept, their bodies fit around each other, always touching, as if they couldn’t relax without knowing the other person was there. 

And yet, for the fourth time that afternoon, Quentin’s leg jostled Eliot’s, and he said, “Oh, sorry.” 

“Don’t worry,” Eliot replied, as though he – didn’t want to be constantly in contact with Quentin. 

Margo snapped. 

“I’ve been taking care of Quentin for months now because, he – he _missed_ you so much. I can’t deal with this any more – I’m fucking exhausted. Somehow you’ve both convinced yourselves that it’s – unrequited or something, but believe me. I can see it. You’re in love. Please just make out.” 

She collapsed back against the pillows, swallowing down a cough. 

“Bambi, I had a whole thing planned –”

“Margo, you can’t just –”

She flapped her hand.“I’m doing you a favour.” 

Eliot ran his fingers through his hair. Hands: shaky, pale. Met Quentin’s eyes. “To be fair, she kind of is.” 

“Is she?” A hitch in Quentin’s breath. 

Eliot gripped the sheet right over Margo’s knee. She could feel him wanting to pace, wanting to run. _Get it together, El,_ she willed him. _I am too tired to pick up any pieces right now._

He swallowed. “Well, we’ve – we’ve brought it up now, and I’ve been wanting to tell you...” 

“Me too.” Quentin leant towards him, eager, afraid: it was ridiculous to have this conversation in a convalescent ward. Too cramped, nowhere to hide any of their dark corners from one another. _But,_ Margo thought, _love is always fucking ridiculous._

Quentin glanced sidelong at Margo, as though looking for courage. She gave him a tiny nod. 

“Rejecting you last year was...” Eliot’s voice was husky, uncertain. He drew a breath. “Was the stupidest thing I ever did – and the, the most cowardly.” He looked very pale, sitting there against the white pillow. 

“You don’t – El, you don’t have to be with me just because of what happened before. Or because – because I helped get you back. We don’t have to –” He paused, shaky. “I’m not very easy to... be with.” 

Eliot touched Quentin’s cheek, fingers delicate and careful. As thought he hadn’t touched Q a million times before; as though he might break or run away. “Neither am I,” Eliot said. “But I – I’ve been regretting what I said to you ever since I said it. When I was – When _he_ was in my head, I had a lot of time to think. And it was mostly about how much I missed you.” 

Quentin’s whole body turned towards Eliot’s. He looked – he wasn’t smiling, but he looked happier. A little dazed. “It’s been – really hard.” 

“I know.” Eliot looked so goddamn vulnerable: Margo wanted to smoosh them together so she didn’t have to witness any more of this. “I know I hurt you, Q. I want to – I want to make it better.” 

“Eliot,” Quentin said, his voice – soft and wondering. Margo drew her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around herself. She wanted to keep them both safe, protect them. If she’d had the power to remove them from all harm, she would have used it. 

Quentin made a little sound in his throat – like a sob, but full of need. They were so close on the bed that it was hard _not_ to be in contact with one another, so Quentin didn’t so much press his face into Eliot’s as stop trying to keep any space between them. Their mouths met, slow and – uncertain. Awkward. Then Eliot cupped the back of Quentin’s neck, hand sliding into position as though he’d held him like this many times before. Quentin made a faint sound, rubbing their cheeks together, and kissed him again, open-mouthed, fluid. It was that – that longing Margo had felt in Quentin before. Yielding to Eliot, letting Eliot lead them into a kiss and another kiss. 

Then they were resting foreheads together, Quentin kissing Eliot’s cheeks, the fuzz of unshaven beard. He was crying; they were both crying. 

God, what had this kid done to them? They used to be above all of this. 

Margo blew her nose on the linen handkerchief – her nose was so red and sore now, crusty. When she looked back up, they’d stopped kissing, and were holding each other, touching one another’s hair and faces as arms, with looks of wonder and awe, like they’d never seen each other before. It was so _raw_. So... fucking insane to be this _undefended_ around another human being. Margo felt a little sick. 

“El,” Quentin said, voice breaking. 

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” Eliot kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. 

Margo supposed they would have made love right then – and definitely it would have been tender, vanilla love-making, very polite, she wanted no part of it – if Eliot’s wound hadn’t made that impossible. She didn’t know if the power of love had fixed Quentin’s failure to rise, too. Probably, it was the kind of thing that would happen to him. 

Anyway, all they could do was lie there holding each other, tear-streaked and adoring. 

She was almost sorry she’d fixed them. The tension might have been easier to bear, after all. 

“There, you see. You just need to do what Daddy tells you,” she said. 

Quentin squeaked in protest. 

“God, Bambi,” Eliot said, and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re a nightmare.” 

He was guiding her towards them. She pressed herself into the warm space at Eliot’s side, leant her head on her arm. Snuffled through her nose. 

They were quiet for a long time. Eliot carded his fingers through Quentin’s hair. Birds sang; somewhere, far away, someone was whistling. The light was shading into evening. Before long, the nurse would come in with Eliot’s evening tray. Life was going on as if she hadn’t made something huge happen. 

She felt proud of all three of them. 

Then Eliot coughed, and said, “Uh, Bambi, how did you wind up being Quentin’s Daddy?”

So. They were going there, then. 

Quentin hid his face in Eliot’s neck, made a faint, distressed sound. Margo clicked her tongue. “Puppy, you have to be able to talk about the things you want. Remember how verbalising your needs is important?” 

“I don’t have any needs,” Quentin said into Eliot’s nightshirt. 

Margo snorted. “You are all need, Q. Don’t even start.” She gave his hair a little tug, let her nails scratch along the back of his neck. He made a faint, not unhappy, sound. 

“While you were – gone, El,” Margo began. “Well, me and Q were both...” She stopped, swallowed. She didn’t want to think of the unbearable fear, the ice around her lungs and heart. She wanted this conversation to be – normal. Or if not normal, at least not actively traumatic. 

El was looking at her, expression more tender, more open, than she was used to. “It must have been hell.” 

Margo didn’t want to think about it. She sat up, settling the sheets more comfortably around her knees. She was going to need another one of the centaurs’ hot-bitter draughts soon, and then maybe a nap. The bed was warm from too many people being in it; it smelt a little of Eliot’s sweat, and of antiseptic. “I didn’t sign up for – this needy little puppy, but I started to like having him around. He’s like a service dog, you know? He’s a lot of work, but he gives back.” 

Quentin emerged, red-faced. “I’m a – what?” 

“You heard me. And when he was having one of his daily nervous breakdowns – don’t blame yourself, El, he’s just like that – he called me _Daddy_. And I thought, if a nice boy is going to be so – so respectful, and offer to eat me out too, who am I to say no?” 

“I thought I was a service dog.” Quentin contorted himself into one of his usual sitting positions, knees around his ears. Toes resting on Eliot’s thigh. 

“Do you want to start talking about all your kinks? I’m trying to help you out here, but I can stop, and you can say it yourself.” 

Quentin squirmed, raised his hands. “No, no, go on.” 

“It seemed to help. He’s – a very good little puppy, really, he just wants to do what he’s told. He’s very – giving. And he likes to feel like someone else is in charge. He needs to have a Daddy.” She stroked the back of his neck. “And his Dad did just die, there may be some stuff to unpack there.” 

A long pause. Quentin’s breath hitched; then he slid off the bed. 

“Your dad – died, baby? When?” Eliot asked. 

Well, she’d truly fucked up the mood, hadn’t she. Jesus. Usually she could put the blame for this sort of thing squarely on Quentin’s shoulders, but now? No. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Q.” She reached out her hand for him. “I didn’t –”

Quentin skirted around the edge of the bed, away from her. “I should – go, I... Need a minute.” 

“Quentin,” Eliot said, sitting up uncomfortably. His core muscles were. Truly fucked. “Baby. Talk to me.” 

“I’ll go,” Margo rubbed her nose. “I need some cold medicine anyway. You need to talk.” 

Quentin stood, holding his shoes in one hand. Looking at her, like – He was afraid. And then he nodded. 

**

He and Eliot always fit so easily against one another. Quentin, tucked against Eliot’s side. Or Eliot, his head in Quentin’s lap. Quentin burrowing between blankets and the weight of Eliot’s arm. Sharing a chair, Quentin’s head resting on Eliot’s shoulder, his butt wedged between the arm of the chair and Eliot’s leg. 

He wanted to – 

Be curled up with Eliot now, as though there’d never been a time when they didn’t fit together. But – 

Right now, as he stood on the cold floor on his bare feet, he was afraid to move. His chest raw, open. 

“I missed everything,” he said, after a long silence. “The funeral, everything leading up to the funeral.” 

“Q –” Eliot began. 

Quentin shook his head. “It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel – anything. I missed you so much, El. I was so alone, I... wasn’t thinking about my dad at all.” 

“I wish I’d been here.” Eliot’s voice was soft and sincere. 

“Me to.” Quentin felt – angry, suddenly. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t Eliot’s _fault,_ but he was angry anyway. “I needed you. And you – you were gone. You left me. You...” Quentin bit his lip; when he was angry, he always ended up crying. Almost any emotion could make him cry; he was _so much._

“Will you –” Eliot paused. “Come here, baby, help out a sick man. I can’t drag you over here like I want to.” 

He wasn’t sure if he could – let himself be touched. He felt – too much. But he sat at the edge of the bed, wanting to be – small. Make himself tiny, fit into the narrowest space. Hide in the laundry basket, like he had as a kid. 

He settled for wrapping his arms around his knees. “I killed him. I knew bringing magic back would make him die, and I did it anyway.” 

Eliot made a pained sound. He sighed. “You helped a lot of us, Q. You brought a lot of good back, too.” 

“I don’t know if that’s true.” 

The room was quiet; the warm brightness of candles against a darkening sky. Quentin didn’t know if he wanted to be held. Deserved to be held. “I told him about us,” he said eventually. “Before he died. The last time I ever saw him. I told him about you, and me, and Teddy, and Arielle. I told him how – how it was everything. How beautiful it was.” 

“It _was_ everything,” Eliot said. “Q, I – I’m sorry.” 

“You’re here now.” Quentin rocked himself, holding his arms close around his body. “I don’t miss him, I don’t think. I just know he’s gone. I never got to tell him – to thank him for – Loving me.” 

“It’s not...” Eliot paused. “He was a good parent, and he knew you loved him. I’m sorry you couldn’t tell him – more. Be with him longer. But...” Another pause. “It’s not hard to love you. You don’t need to thank him for that. I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to fuck everything up. I’m scared I’m going to fuck you up. But I’m not – scared about that.” 

Quentin sniffled into his arms. It hurt, hearing Eliot say this. It felt like too much. Like he didn’t have any skin. He wanted – he didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted to _go home_ , but he didn’t know where that was any more. 

“Please come here.” Eliot’s voice was rough. 

He couldn’t uncurl: if he let himself relax, he might fall apart. But he squirmed across the bed, let Eliot wrap his arms around the little ball of he’d made of himself. He pressed his face against Eliot’s shoulder, into Eliot’s armpit. Smelt him at the back of his throat. “Oh, El,” he said – remembering laundry in cold spring water outside their hut; Eliot grabbing his hand for the first time, back in his first year at Brakebills, the heat of his skin; dazed, dozing, watching Eliot talking to Margo, laughing with her – 

“I’ve got you,” Quentin said, into Eliot’s skin. “It’s going to be OK.” 

“That’s what I was trying to say to you. And I’m the one holding you. I think it’s pretty clear that I’ve got you.” 

“I think having each other is part of this.” Quentin shut his eyes, breathing in Eliot’s warm-sweaty scent. 

After some time had passed, he felt his limbs loosening a little, and he was able to relax against Eliot’s side, face emerging from Eliot’s armpit. 

“It’s hard to feel so many things.” Eliot looked a little pinched, his eyes red-rimmed. 

“Are you OK? Do you need another draft of that painkiller?” 

“No, I’m just letting myself have emotions instead of repressing, and it’s kind of awful.” 

Quentin nodded. Snuffled. “Yeah, I’ve always been shit at repressing stuff, I think that’s why I have such a hard time.” 

Eliot touched Quentin’s cheek, thumb tracing his jawline. “I... I know you’ll have a hard time hearing this, but you are the bravest of all of us, little Q.” 

“I think that’s probably Margo.” 

“No.” Eliot laughed. “Bambi talks a good game, but she’s as scared as I am, really.” 

Quentin wriggled a little. Finding words for this were difficult, too: “I, uh. She helped so much. I just uh – let her take care of me? She bossed me around and – cuddled with me – and it kept me sane, honestly.” 

Eliot smiled. “In my memory, topping you was always a good way to keep you level.” 

Quentin felt his cheeks warm. “I – Wasn’t sure if you remembered.” 

“Baby. I was trapped inside my own memories for months. Of course I – spent a lot of time remembering what a _good boy_ you were.” 

Quentin squirmed again, pressed into the warmth of Eliot’s body. He felt – safe and scared; raw and secure; anxious and sad – all at once. “I think I need to go for a walk,” he said. “I – I’m not avoiding you, I just...” 

“It’s completely reasonable to want go for a walk, Q. I would too, if I could.” 

It felt – a little weird to deliberately untangle himself from Eliot, when he had spent so much time longing to be tangled up with him. But he needed – to walk, or something. He slid out of bed, kissed Eliot’s cheek. Forgot to put on his shoes. Slipped from the tents into the falling dusk. 

He found a tree he’d – a tree he’d sat under a few times when he’d been here before. When he was recovering from a different horrible thing. His cold toes digging into cold loam. Took one deep breath, and then another. It was always a _bad idea_ for him to spend all day in bed. Even if the bed was populated by his favourite people. It made his brain feel stuffy and tense. And he needed – 

Air. He needed the sky. 

There was so much inside of him. He needed – 

To breathe out for a second. Because who the hell could possibly contain as much as he contained right now? Without breaking? 

Fillory’s second moon was rising in the navy blue sky to the west. Quentin watched its progress, felt – felt in the way he forgot when he had been in Fillory for a long time – that he was in another world. A beautiful, insane world, a place where he’d been happier than ever before in his life, and sadder, too. Deep in his gut, he knew he was on a world that spun in different orbit from the one where he’d been born. 

He breathed in air that was sweet and vibrant, listened to a silence that was full of quiet rustling, owl cries, and magic. 

_I wish I could have brought my dad here._

He buried his fingers in the soil, remembering the feeling of planting vegetables in cool earth. Of dirt under his fingernails, of Eliot singing as he sorted tiles. He was crying, but – He was always crying. It was the good kind of crying. He was grieving, and he was loved, and he was afraid, and he was – here. 

“Want me to leave you alone?” Margo’s robe was ghostly pale in the dimness. “I’m walking around sneezing out the last of the plague.” 

He was pleased to hear her voice. Part of him relaxed, in the comfort of Daddy. Then he thought: _But it’s over. I shouldn’t need a Daddy now._ “No, don’t, I – It’s been a big afternoon.” 

“It certainly has, puppy.” Margo stood beside him, touched his hair. “That was my favourite ever declaration of love, but don’t tell anyone I said so.” 

“I wasn’t aware that you liked... any declarations of love.” 

“I don’t, but I have vested interest in you boys being happy.” 

Quentin looked up at the constellations whose names he didn’t know. “What’ll we do now? When Eliot’s recovered?” 

“I need to get back to my castle,” Margo said. “I don’t know what will be best for you and El.” 

“I want to –” Quentin began, and then he smelt something fragrant and faint, like an almond tree half a block away, whispering its scent into a spring air. 

He looked up and – 

“Q,” Julia said. She sounded – so like herself that for a moment he forgot. He forgot that she was a goddess, he forgot that everything had changed. She was going to hand him a smoke, and tell him – Probably tell him it was OK to cry. 

Then he was on his feet, hugging her, saying – “What happened? Are you OK? Is... is the Monster...” 

“What the fuck, Julia,” Margo said, but it didn’t seem to be a question. She punched Julia lightly on the upper arm. 

Julia’s expression – affectionate, kind – seemed to encompass both of them. She put her hand on Quentin’s cheek: warm, living, _human_ , yet at the same time it felt like he was being touched by a whole forest at once: vast, many-faceted, full of knowledge he’d never have. 

“I’m happy for you,” she said. 

“Jules...?” 

“I think you’re on a good path now.” She was leaning back on her heels, her eyes golden in the dusk. 

“Am _I_?” Margo said. “Is Eliot? What about Fillory? Earth?” 

Quentin liked the way she refused to let herself be awed.

Julia ignored her. “I have – Well, I have someone I need you to meet.” 

“What does that mean?” Margo asked. 

He hadn’t registered the boy before; perhaps he hadn’t been there. He looked twelve or fourteen, dressed in Fillorian clothes. Dark hair, unfamiliar until – 

Until Quentin saw his face, and recognised the expression there. 

“No.” Quentin stumbled backwards. Seeing the Monster’s eyes made him afraid: a helpless, animal fear. He hadn’t known that he’d feel such fear. 

“What the fuck!” Margo said, and her arms went around Quentin; he felt her forearm digging into his stomach, like she was – trying to protect him. 

“I don’t have a name.” The boy’s speech was more fluent than it had been when he inhabited Eliot’s body. He was a little shorter than Quentin, skinny, gangly. “I never did. And I don’t have any powers. They took them all away. And they gave me – rules. I have to do human things now. Boring things.” 

“Jesus, Julia.” Quentin felt vertiginous, like he couldn’t trust the ground. 

“Get him away from us.” Margo was trembling. With rage, Quentin thought, not fear. 

“He can’t hurt you.” Julia was looking at him with her golden eyes, and Quentin – realised fully again, that she wasn’t human any more. That he was different from her; that her world was, for him, unknowable. “I thought you wanted him to have a chance?”

“I did.” Quentin swallowed. “But, I...” 

“You’re telling Quentin to – look after a thing that tortured him? You’re making your best friend do that? That’s really what’s happening here?” Margo snapped. 

Julia’s expression clouded. “It would help if he had a guide. I thought it would make this – easier. I thought Q would want to do it, but if it’s too much... I don’t know. He should go to Whitespire and – help. Make amends. Make something good.” 

“Oh yes, because my people haven’t put up with him for long enough!” Margo let go of Quentin so she could clench her fists. 

Quentin looked at the boy. His pout. The way he was standing, hunched, uncertain. The tension of his shoulders. Anger. 

He remembered the Monster’s breaking his wrist. More than once. He remembered the Monster’s expression – confusion, frustration – when he realised he didn’t want to hurt him. 

Quentin bit his lip. “Will we be safe?” 

“No one’s ever safe.” Julia tilted her head. “But change is possible.” 

“You don’t have to do this, Q,” Margo said. “I – forbid. As High King of Fillory, I forbid it.” 

“You’re not High King any more,” Quentin said. His voice came out soft. He was thinking, _What did I expect, when I saved him? Did I really think there wouldn’t be any consequences?_

He was thinking: _He needs someone to love him. I don’t think that can be me. But I can help him to learn how to stop hurting people._

“You have so many kind thoughts in your head,” Julia said. “I never knew before.” 

“What will I – how will I help him?” Quentin asked, but Julia was already – fading. Because she was a goddess, and not his best friend any more. 

“What the fuck!” Margo yelled after her. 

Julia had left them alone, with a boy who used to be a monster, in the cooling evening. 

“I can’t see anything in the dark,” the boy said, as though that was a new experience for him. 

“Maybe we should go inside,” Quentin said. 

“That’s a horrible idea,” Margo cut in. 

“OK, Quentin.” The boy’s voice was so unfamiliar. Thin, reedy, uncertain. Even his intonations were unfamiliar.

That helped. 

“Are you listening to anything I say, Q? You don’t have to do this,” Margo said. 

“I think I kind of do.” Quentin said. “They left him alone before. The gods. That didn’t turn out well.” 

“It’s not your responsibility.” Margo gripped his hand. 

Quentin wasn’t sure about that. He thought, maybe, when you tried to be kind, the consequences were your responsibility, just as much as if you did something cruel. 

“Are you going to name me?” the boy asked suddenly, looking in between them. 

“I think you should probably name yourself,” Quentin said. 

“You should help.” 

Quentin swallowed. The stars were coming out. _Jesus Christ, Julia._ “OK. I’ll help.”


	7. Chapter 7

In the hospital, Quentin felt unmoored in time. All that mattered was rest and healing, watching Eliot grow a little stronger. Helping him to take tentative steps. The rest of life felt far away. He didn’t always find it very comfortable to be there, but it was so different from a hospital on earth that it didn’t bring up too many bad memoires. 

There were times when Quentin even felt peaceful. Until The Boy arrived, of course. 

Quentin thought of him as The Boy. Which was – pretty nonspecific, to be fair. Margo called him the Horrible Murder Child. The Boy spent a lot of time in the woods around the hospital; he came back for meals, confused by hunger pangs. Confused by the weakness of a frail body that didn’t run on the powers of a god. 

“Are we going to take him with us to Whitespire?” Eliot asked. Quentin was packing away the few items they’d acquired in their time here. They were returning to Whitespire by carriage, now that Eliot was well enough to travel. They didn’t have a helpful goddess or disgrunteled traveller to blip them around, so it would be a day’s journey in good weather. 

Quentin smoothed his hands over the pyjamas he’d been folding. “Where else?” 

“Aren’t you...” Eliot sighed. “You have nightmares, baby. That he’s still in my body. I hear you. You don’t have to have him around. You don’t owe him anything.” 

The Boy was older than Quentin could imagine. And he was a boy. Directionless, vulnerable. Lost. “I can’t abandon him,” Quentin said. “It would be like when Victor Frankenstein abandons his creation because he’s not what he expected. It was that – that _moment of abandonment_ that made his monster so – angry, so lost. I can’t do that to him.” 

“You’re such a nerd,” Eliot said fondly. “So, I’ve only seen the movie and I don’t remember any of that, but – wasn’t the whole thing that Frankenstein _made_ the Monster? Through his own choice? You didn’t choose any of this, Q.” 

Quentin put aside the pile of clothes; sat down. He tried to find words to explain: he didn’t choose any of this. Things happened. He’d tried to save the Boy – and now here he was. How he responded to that was the only part he had could control. “I can’t leave him here. We can... We’re not _adopting_ him. We’re just... helping. We can take our time to figure out what happens next.” 

“That sounds exactly like the speech I gave to my Mom when I wanted a puppy,” Eliot said. “Are you sure you don’t want a puppy instead?” 

Quentin threw the pillow at him. And then said, “Actually, I do want a puppy.” 

**

“Menelaus?” the Boy suggested, as the carriage jolted over another rut. 

Eliot wasn’t complaining, but his face was pale and drawn with pain. The Boy huddled into one corner, knees drawn up. Quentin realised he was mirroring The Boy’s posture from the other side of the carriage. Margo was leaning out the window, as though pretending she wasn’t with them. 

They’d mostly been playing the Picking-Names game. “That’s a little long,” Quentin said, rubbing his forehead. “Are you sure it has to begin with an ‘M’?” 

“Yes.” The Boy yawned. “Melancton?” 

They’d get there eventually. 

** 

Unmoored in time – Quentin felt that, too, now they were in Whitespire. It was partly the Fillorian light, thin and yellow. The sound of birds. In some moments, he felt completely at home, like they’d never left their little hut, and then he’d – see Eliot wince in pain, or hear The Boy laugh and he’d think – 

_Where am I?_

He woke with Eliot’s shape next to him, the familiar length and warmth. From dreams, he often woke semi-hard or at least with his dick thickening, but it didn’t last. He’d held Eliot, naked, against his skin, he’d kissed him; he’d helped him wash, together they’d learnt how to manoeuvrer his sore body around the room: but they hadn’t had sex. Not yet – and Quentin longed to touch Eliot that way, to press his mouth to Eliot’s cock but – 

Both their bodies weren’t listening yet. Were too busy healing, each in its own way. Quentin palmed his dick, felt it soften under his fingers. He pressed his face into the soft skin at Eliot’s throat and – HE didn’t feel. Frustrated. Not like he’d imagined he would. For moments, one after another, he felt content. 

Eliot murmured, sighed, and then said, “It’s funny to wake up without a hangover. Or without another crisis on the way. I like it.” 

“It’s so quiet,” Quentin said. 

“It makes me remember...” Eliot was quiet for a long time, and then said, “Dawn, with Teddy. The sound of birds. Trying not to wake you or Arielle.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin felt a rush of – love, of gratitude – so intense he didn’t know what to do with it. He had to flap his hands and wriggle in order to bear it. 

Eliot struggled to sit up. 

“Let me help you.” 

“I’m – all right,” Eliot said. He went from lying to sitting without any help but Quentin knew to be there when he tried to stand. He clasped Quentin’s forearms, heaved himself upright. 

“I can bring the chamber pot in here,” Quentin suggested, rubbing sleeping from his eyes. 

“No, I’m going to piss behind a screen with my dignity intact,” Eliot said. Quentin snorted. Because it wasn’t big deal, because he’d already seen – everything. It was all part of this terrifying, wonderful intimacy: listening to Eliot piss, and then knowing when to get up and help him walk without wavering. 

They settled back down into bed: Quentin tucking himself into Eliot’s side. “You found it easier – when we –” Eliot began, and then moistened his lips. Quentin sat up, poured a glass of water. Eliot’s mouth quirked as he took it. “You’re such a good boy,” he said. Which made Quentin feel – warm. 

“It’s...” Eliot paused again, sipping the water. “My new thing is to talk about stuff. Not letting things fester. I think it’s part of being... brave?” 

“Sounds very emotionally healthy,” Quentin agreed. 

“You found it easier – at the mosaic,” Eliot said. “We had the same routine, day after day. The years started to have the same routines too: when we harvested; when we made preserves. Sometimes I thought – I thought I’d go insane, but you. You were so much calmer, Q.” 

Remembering the mosaic was like trying to hold onto a dream: raw, vivid, but hard to put into words. “Maybe it’s just that I got older.” 

“I don’t think so.” Eliot was watching him. “I think you – _thrive_ when you have something to do that you care about, and when you feel safe.” 

“So you’re saying I’m very boring?” 

“No, that’s not it at all.” Eliot’s hand closed over his. Large, warm: a miracle. “I’m saying we – We now know, how to build a space for you that’s – good. Where things aren’t so hard.” 

God. It was true, but. He hadn’t realised it. He hadn’t seen it in himself; he hadn’t known that Eliot had seen it. That Eliot watched him, knew him. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.” Quentin chewed at the pad of his thumb. “I don’t think we’d want to make another mosaic.” 

“But maybe we can find a way to – to _be_ that’s good for you.” Eliot’s voice was husky, gentle. Quentin wriggled close, closer, turned his head up to kiss Eliot’s jaw. 

A long, golden silence. The sense of being somewhere _other._ Floating through time. It was sort of beautiful. 

“I’m adaptable, I think.” Eliot stretched, winced “I can do anything, once I’ve recovered from my horrific wound.” 

“I’ve –” Quentin took a breath. “I’ve never thought about life like that before. I guess I’ve never thought I’d be alive past thirty.” 

That was the kind of sentence that silenced them both. “Me too,” Eliot said at last. “But maybe it’s time to have goals.” 

Quentin nosed into Eliot’s throat. Feeling: small, safe. “I _really_ didn’t think I’d be alive right now. I didn’t want to be.” 

“I know.” Eliot’s arm tight around him. “I know, baby.” 

“It’s not just about me...” 

“Are you sure?” Margo came in without knocking – she’d stopped sharing a bed with them since they returned, but their room was still her room too. “In my experience, it usually is about you.” 

“I thought it was always about _you,_ ” Quentin returned, both wishing to continue the conversation and glad to take a break from the intensity of feeling. 

“Fen thinks we should apprentice your murder child to weapons maker, and doesn’t seem to understand why that it’s a horrible idea. You deal with it.” Margo plopped down on the edge of the bed, brushing Eliot’s hair back from his face in a proprietorial way. 

“Please don’t call him ‘my murder child’,” Quentin snapped. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. _The_ murder child.” 

“Margo! We’re trying to teach him it’s possible to grow and change.” 

“Ugh. I wish I wasn’t too mature to make barfing noises.” Margo rolled her eyes instead. “Anyway, he needs a name. Tell him, El.” 

“I’ve heard Tick call him ‘New Eliot’,” Eliot pointed out. 

“Oh, god.” Quentin swung his legs out of bed. “Thanks for ruining my morning.” 

Margo raised her hands. “Blame your horrible murder child! And there’s no rush. He’ll still be horrible after you eat something.” 

**

Quentin usually met The Boy outside the stables. Horses reminded Quentin too much of cowboy camp, and how lonely it had been, with this kids who hated him and these giant beasts who also hated him, but. He was trying to grow, too, and The Boy seemed to like the horses, or at least how quiet they were. 

In his memories, the Monster loomed over him, sudden and terrifying. The Boy was too small to loom – he still made Quentin uneasy, but less so. Especially here, in the quiet, sitting on either side of a straw bale. (Quentin knew it was straw and not hay because cowboy camp had been thorough.) 

It was kind of peaceful: the air was dusty, horse-smelling. A spider spun over one of the stalls. It could be a talking spider, for all he knew, like Charlotte. 

“High King Fen thinks you might like to start an apprenticeship with the weapons master,” Quentin said. What she’d actually said was, _Master Radley is insane and has tonnes of weapons, he won’t get killed_ , but Quentin was rounding up. 

“I bit Drake from the kitchens.” 

Quentin kept his eyes on the spider. “Why?” 

“He didn’t taste very nice. He grabbed my neck and I couldn’t get away, and he kicked me.” The Boy spoke in a monotone. 

“OK.” Quentin looked sideways at him, trying to assess if there were any serious injuries. 

“So perhaps I _should_ get a weapon.” 

“Oh. Well, no. You need to learn how to solve problems without violence.” 

The Boy sighed. “So you keep saying.” 

A horse stamped. Someone cursed. Strands of straw drifted in the breeze. Quentin didn’t think The Boy really liked physical violence; perhaps for the Monster it had been a way to assert power, a way to feel in control, but violence only served to remind The Boy how weak he was now. 

“It might be interesting to learn how to make something,” Quentin said. “You could try it for a few weeks.” 

“Do you like making things?” The Boy asked. 

Quentin thought about it. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Hmm.” The quiet deepened. The spider spun. “OK.” 

He hadn’t agreed to anything before. Quentin felt a rush of – surprise. Relief. Gratitude. 

He didn’t want to make it into to big of a deal. “I’ll tell him. You still need a name. What about Mark?” 

“No.” The Boy thought. “Melchior?” he suggested, rolling the r. 

“I’m not sure.”

The Boy sighed. “Mnemosnye?” 

“People might have a hard time pronouncing that one.”

“Meat Suit?” 

“Definitely not.” But Quentin realised The Boy was grinning. 

“Is my old Meat Suit still alive?” he asked. 

“Please don’t call Eliot that,” Quentin said. 

The Boy pouted, chin on hands. He was jealous of Eliot. Quentin kept them apart as much as possible: seeing them together made him shiver. 

“How about Max?” Quentin suggested. 

The Boy scuffed his feet over the ground. “Maaaaax. M – ax – ax. Maybe.” 

**

Margo found Quentin waiting in the corridor near Eliot’s room, looking – like usual, really. Tired and despondent. 

“Why aren’t you looking after El?” Margo snapped. She and Fen and Tick were spending far too much time trying to get her unbanished, when there was actual important governing to do, and she was pissed off about it, but at least she’d assumed Eliot at least was getting the attention he deserved. 

“He kicked me out.” Quentin sighed. “Why aren’t _you_ with him?” 

“Because you’re the babysitter.” Margo wanted – a goddamn drink. Also, Quentin was looking like he was trying to use his brain, and that never ended well. She was beginning to think that since she couldn’t get a decent Riesling or even a horrible Chardonnay, she might as well spank him. That’d mellow her out too. 

“He’s not – Jesus, Margo, it’s not like that any more.” 

His tone was sharp. Margo reached to rub the back of his neck – always a good move with Quentin – but he flinched a little, moving away. 

“I know,” Margo said, backing off. “Fuck. We could push Tick off a cliff. It would brighten everyone’s day.” 

“I think casual murder isn’t really my thing.” 

“Yeah, you wouldn’t be good at it.” Margo bit her lip. “God. What wouldn’t you give for Fillory to have a spa.” 

“I’ve never actually. Been to a spa?” 

Of course he hadn’t. “You’re missing out.” 

“I... don’t know if I’d like it.” 

He looked so small and tired. Margo’s neck hurt just from looking at his posture. “You need to be spanked,” she said. “More to the point, I need some stress relief.” 

Quentin – flushed, which was kind of adorable. Looked at his hands. Said, “Maybe we should see if El’s feeling better. He said he didn’t want me to watch him do physical therapy in case I found the sound of him groaning too sexually stimulating.”

“Aw, puppy. Don’t you need some help with getting stimulated, though?” 

Quentin made a sound that wasn’t exactly a sigh or a laugh. Margo grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the bedroom. 

Eliot looked pale and tired, too. This – healing thing took so long. Margo wished she could stop worrying about everyone, and get on with a life of hedonism. Except. Every time she let go of one responsibility, she added three more. She must secretly enjoy it, which was – 

A frightening thought. 

Margo made herself comfortable on the bed next to Eliot, stroking El’s hair back from his face. He tipped his head up, looking for a kiss. She touched her nose to his, delighted to see him, thinking about. How to make him smile. 

Quentin settled at the bottom of the bed, arms around his knees. Looking up at them through his hair. Like he was shy, like they didn’t spend all their time touching each other. 

“Poor puppy,” Margo said, watching him. “He’s had a hard time. I think he needs a treat.” 

Quentin squirmed in response to her words, even though she knew he liked it when she patronised him. 

“Hmm.” Eliot’s voice was gentle, his expression warm. “I deserve to get a treat too. I’m the one with no working stomach muscles.” 

“I think your treat is that you get to watch,” Margo said. “And that I’ve trained him so nicely for you. Haven’t I, puppy?” 

“I – You –” He flushed. Such a good boy. 

She sat up, reaching to soothe him. “Little puppy. I should just do what I want to you. Asking questions confuses you.” 

He tensed in response – but not in the good, excited way. He was turning into a mound of elbows and anxiety, when she wanted him open and eager. 

She brushed his hair back from his face, tangled her fingers in it, but didn’t tug it yet. She imagined she was grabbing hold of a leash, pulling her little puppy into her arms. “You’re so wound up. I thought you’d be – calmer once El was safe, but you can be tense about anything, cant you?” 

“It’s his special talent.” Eliot was trying to tease but his voice came out as fond as always. 

Quentin shivered. Jerked his head away so fast her fingers snagged in his hair, and she _yanked_ by accident. He made a little sound of pain. “I...”

“Come back, puppy,” she coaxed. 

“I’m not your puppy!” he said: voice breaking, tearful. He didn’t sound defiant, he sounded defeated. “I – I’m sorry. Everything was so awful, and I made you look after me! But it – it wasn’t _fair_ on you. And I – I don’t _deserve you_. Especially not now. I don’t deserve this.” 

“Oh, Q.” Margo felt – so tired suddenly. She’d tried so hard to make him feel cared for, and he was still feeling guilty. 

“Sit up.” Eliot was firm, and Margo was glad he was there to help. “Look at us.” 

A long moment, and then Quentin looked up. Unable, as usual, to disobey. His hair was in his eyes again. 

“I just... I shouldn’t need you. Like this. Either of you. I should be... better.” 

“Stop.” Margo sighed. “First – you didn’t make me do anything. Have you ever seen _anyone_ make me do anything I don’t want to do?” 

Quentin shook his head. 

“Words, puppy,” she prompted him. 

“No.” 

He didn’t call her ‘Daddy’ which was – what he usually said in response to ‘puppy’. And that made her feel bad, like she’d never get to hear ‘Daddy’ again. That would be unacceptable. 

“You never deserved it.” Margo forced eye contact with him, though she could see he was struggling with it. “You don’t have to deserve it. It’s about me _giving_ to you. Because I want to. Because I chose to you. Because you’re _mine.”_

“But, I...” Quentin dug his nails into his palms. “Should I? Is it _allowed?_ ” 

Margo snorted. “By who?” 

“Come here,” Eliot said. “Both of you. Let your other Daddy help.” 

“Just so we’re clear: I’m never calling you Daddy,” Margo said, but she was glad to see Quentin eagerly pillow himself against Eliot’s chest. Keeping his arms and knees away from El’s tender stomach – he was such a well-trained puppy; she wanted to show him off. 

Margo settled down beside him, reached over to tangle her fingers with Eliot’s. El gave her a tiny wink. 

“Quentin feels like it’s not OK to want what he wants,” Eliot said, in a lecturing tone. “Because he has limited sexual experience, and thinks his small-scale submissive needs make him a pervert, or like he wants something unreasonable, when he’s actually pretty vanilla. Luckily, we’ll give him room to experiment and feel safe.” 

“In a supportive environment,” Margo agreed. “Until I get bored.” 

“Bambi. Be nice.” 

“I’m being realistic,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. Really, she couldn’t imagine not wanting Quentin to call her ‘Daddy’. But she wasn’t going to say that. “I like variety. I’ll come back. Anyway, Quentin’s lucky. Quentin has two Daddies.” 

“Oh my God,” Eliot laughed. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” 

“The Daddy thing is dumb,” Quentin said, hiding his face against El’s shoulder. “I don’t need it any more.” 

“Oh, honey,” Eliot pushed Quentin’s hair away from his eyes. Tugged him up by his chin. “Look at me.” 

Quentin squirmed, wriggled. 

“OK, don’t look at me.” Eliot’s voice was more gentle. Margo was glad he was here to wrangle this. “But listen. We are absolutely thrilled to be your Daddies for as long as you want us. And we want to help you feel safe, and we want to give you orders, and we want you to be _you.”_

Quentin sat up, wrapped his arms around his knees. “Sometimes I feel _so stupid._ About everything. My whole life. Everything I’ve done. And then when I’m with – When Margo’s my Daddy, I feel OK, for like ten seconds, and then I feel one hundred times _more stupid.”_

“That’s because you _are_ stupid,” Margo said, in maybe the gentlest voice she’d ever used. “And I fucking love hearing you call me ‘Daddy’. It makes me feel – respected. Admired. Needed. And that’s... as emotional as I’m getting right now, OK?” 

Quentin began to smile. “OK, Daddy.” 

Eliot pulled him in for a kiss. “And now, our job is to make you not feel stupid.” 

Margo watched as they kissed – Quentin’s mouth opening for Eliot’s tongue. As he drew back, Quentin seemed to relax a little. Then he bit his lip again and said, “I still can’t get hard.” 

She knew. They all knew. No reason to dwell on it, or make him feel bad. She patted his shoulder, squeezed his butt. “Good. That’s the way I like you. You need to give Eliot the most gentle and thorough blow-job he’s ever had in his life. And then me. And then you’ll be too tired to worry about whether you’re hard or not.” 

“Is that what you want, baby?” Eliot all melting and soft. If it wasn’t _them_ , she’d gag. 

Quentin’s gaze was hooded, needy. She was getting familiar with that. “Yeah,” he said. And then, like it was an effort, “But – but you said you’d spank me, Daddy.”

God, he was so much work. And so rewarding. She heard Eliot’s soft moan. “This Daddy is definitely hard. Despite the pain-killers. Jesus, Q.” 

Margo laughed. She was good at this. They were both _so good_. “OK. Slight change to the menu. I’ll spank Q first.” 

Eliot groaned through his teeth. “Fuck me.” 

“Eventually,” Margo said, grinning. “Look at Q.” 

**

Quentin liked it when she patronised him. He liked it even more now that Eliot was taking part. It was the kind of thing he tried not to examine too deeply, and then ended up thinking about when he couldn’t sleep. _Why, Mr Coldwater, do you like to be patronised? Is it [A] insecurity, [B] an unhealthy obsession with your inner child, [C] a lack of autonomy or [D] all of the above?_

He didn’t know what they saw when they looked at him. He felt – hot and exposed; he wanted to make himself smaller. His skin was too tight. He – he _wanted_ her to spank him. He _craved_ it, like you’d crave coffee or a hug or – cocaine – 

“Take your clothes off, for Christ’s sake,” Margo said, like he’d been refusing. “And get on your stomach.” 

He stripped, aware that the high stone room was cool, but feeling impossibly flustered. Sweaty. He didn’t know he’d been feeling so much; he’d been so ashamed, and he’d wanted his Daddies so badly, but he hadn’t known he’d wanted them, and it was _a lot –_

“God,” Eliot said, like he was – actually talking to a higher power, like _Quentin_ had made him need to appeal to a higher power, and then he reached for Q, and kissed him. Tender and hard at once. Teeth nipping Quentin’s lips. 

He was getting – dazed. From those kisses alone. In such a good way. Like the world was getting a little rosier. 

He lay on his stomach. He felt himself melt as Margo warmed his ass with a couple of gentle swats. He teetered, worrying – Would they still think he was hot when he was ass-up and whimpering? Was that really what they wanted? Was it really OK to want this? 

And then he felt a sense of calm, a rightness, like he was floating over the surface of a deep pool, but utterly unafraid of drowning – 

– because Margo hit him again, harder. 

“Oh,” Eliot made a little noise through his teeth. “You’ve taught him to take it, huh, Bambi?” 

Quentin heard the words from far away. 

“Grow a pair of tits, El,” Margo snapped. “This is nothing.” And then she was saying, more gently, into Quentin’s hair, “What do you say if it gets too much?” 

The points of her nails pressed sharp into his skin. 

“S – safeword,” Quentin hummed. 

“How are you doing, puppy?” 

He was melting. His tongue was _so wet_. “More, please, Daddy,” and the ‘Daddy’ came out of his mouth easily: it was the only thing he could possibly call Margo. 

Eliot made another noise, and Quentin – reached for him. Found his forearm, and squeezed it. He wanted to tell Eliot something – that he loved him; that he was happy; but Margo was bluntly erasing words from his head. He was floating above them on his smooth dark pool. 

Then it hurt so much he was crying, and Margo was petting his hair. He was aware time had passed, mostly because of how much his ass stung. He was – good; he was safe. 

He wanted – when he felt like this he wanted something in his mouth, he wanted to hide his face in Margo’s pussy, in her breasts, he wanted to make Daddy happy – 

“Are you ready to get El off, sweetie?” Margo said, voice tickling his ear. 

He crawled towards Eliot’s crotch. El had been – palming his cock through his pants, and Quentin nuzzled at his hand, licking it, sucking at Eliot’s finger. Eliot was asking him something, and Quentin struggled to hear him, he didn’t know how to listen, didn’t they understand he needed – he _needed –_

“I’m OK,” he managed. “Please let me – let me suck you.” 

Eliot groaned, “Yes, baby, yes,” touching Quentin’s face. Eliot’s skin was – _hot,_ his cock was hard through his finely-woven pants. Quentin licked at the pants, nuzzled them, nuzzled into the warm-salty smell of Eliot’s skin, into the heat of his groin, sucked at the head of the cock through the cloth, tasting pre-come and linen and – 

Then Margo laughed and said something, and she was unlacing El’s pants and tugging them down, and Quentin – wrapped his mouth around the head of Eliot’s cock. God, it felt – hard and hot and silky, and he just wanted to – _suck it_ – taste it in his mouth, suck, _suck –_

His muscles were so loose, it was so fucking easy to relax his jaw, to guide Eliot further inside, and then he was – shutting his eyes – 

He felt like nothing existed, just his deliciously warm body and the heat of Eliot inside his mouth and the rhythm, the beautiful rhythm of his tongue against El’s cock – 

He was – complete. Like he’d been born just to make Eliot and Margo happy by sucking them off, that was all he _needed_ , all he wanted to do – 

He probably wasn’t even giving particularly good head, but it didn’t matter, he was giving what he longed to give, sucking with such enthusiasm, such wanting. He was drooling, nuzzling at Eliot, panting – and Eliot was whimpering in response, like it was _good_ , like he was making El _happy –_

Eliot’s hands were in his hair, gently pulling him away, and Quentin – whimpered, because he was safe here, he didn’t want to stop – 

“Daddy?” he murmured, the word coming from deep inside himself. 

El looked – awe-struck. “Baby, I don’t want to come in your mouth. Can you finish me off with your hands?” 

Quentin – could – but – He needed, he needed – 

He grabbed Eliot’s wrist, pressed his face against Eliot’s palm, and sucked El’s finger into his mouth, and then – and then he felt _whole_ again, and he wrapped his hand around El’s saliva-slick cock and fucked it in the tight cage of his palm. 

Eliot came in Quentin’s hand, come spilling over his fingers, tacky and wet. Quentin let El’s finger pop out of his mouth so he could lick at the come, smell it, and then Margo was murmuring something, and he felt a warm tingling spell cleaning him. Quentin tasted Eliot in his mouth, tried to calm down, come back – 

He looked up at Margo; she was naked now, and beside him, and Quentin rubbed his face against her forearms, her stomach, nuzzled into her breasts. 

She laughed but it was – kind. “You’re such a fucking mess,” she murmured. “Good puppy; well done.” 

And he felt good, hearing that, good and calm, and wanting, still, wanting more of her skin, more the scent of both of them in his mouth and nose and throat. 

Margo cupped his groin – involuntarily he rutted forward and – _oh_. He wasn’t hard, not really, but his cock was bigger than it had been in months, flushed with blood. That was – it felt distant to him, but _good_ too – 

“Look at Eliot,” Margo said, nudging his cheek, and Quentin looked at Eliot – his Eliot, Eliot present and here and _theirs_ , and looking at them both with such adoration that Quentin could barely stand it. He scrambled over the bed, towards Eliot, burying his face in Eliot neck – heard a faint ‘oof’ of pain as he jostled Eliot’s stomach, and murmured apologies into Eliot’s skin. 

And he was held – contained by Margo’s arms, by Eliot’s body, by both of them. It was so good, and so much. He was – maybe crying a tiny bit against Eliot’s neck, but _it was OK,_ Eliot and Margo were petting him, he was mess and it was – _it was OK._

“God,” Eliot said. “Fuck.” His voice was husky. 

“I know.” Quentin could tell from Margo’s voice that she was smiling. “I’m finally beginning to understand why people like him.” 

“You’re so mean,” Eliot snorted. “And you’re not fooling me, either. You’re besotted with your new toy.” 

“Shut up.” Margo tickled Eliot’s side. 

Eliot hissed through his teeth. “That’s low, Bambi, causing pain to the man you stabbed.” 

She laughed. “Well, you know I’m mean.” 

There was a – pause, and then Quentin heard the wet sound of their mouths meeting. They were making out over the top of his head. Quentin nuzzled as close to Eliot as he could, feeling the warmth of Margo behind him, her naked leg hooking over his. Her tiny moan as she kissed Eliot; the barely audible sound of their mouths. He felt himself to be both perfectly contained and entirely insignificant. 

**

“We may have been a little ambitious,” Margo said. Eliot was dozing, easily worn-out. Her limbs were heavy; she felt deliciously warm and calm. Almost drunk. 

Quentin looked up at her: eyes still huge, but coming back to himself a little. “We’ve done a lot while we’re all so raw,” she explained. “And I still haven’t got around to fucking you.” 

Quentin nestled back into her breasts. It was kind of flattering, how much he loved her boobs. Eliot snored a tiny bit, mumbling something. She wished she could understand it, so she could tease him about it later. 

“It’s very sad,” Quentin’s voice was very serious.. “Did you come, Daddy?” 

Oh – he was a good puppy, wasn’t he? 

“I’m glad you’re concerned about the important thing. Yes – twice. Once watching you and El, and a little one against you leg.” 

“I’m glad I helped.” Quentin nudged her with his nose.“I can eat you out later.”

“Very good puppy.” She stretched into his warmth. “First, you should go find one of the servants and ask them to bring up a bath. We’re both sticky in way too many places.” 

He sighed, as thought she was being unreasonable. “I’m comfortable.” 

Margo swatted his ass. “Go on. You don’t just get fun spankings and dick, you know that. You’ve also got to work.” 

And yet – she didn’t want him to get out of bed. She wanted both of them, right here, her boys, her people, her friends. But she encouraged him out from under the sheets because there was no point in getting complacent. He winced a little as his feet touched the cold floor. 

“Be quick,” she said, snuggling into Eliot’s side. 

He looked back at her, raised his eyebrows. Sweet and safe and learning to be whole. “Yes, Daddy.”


End file.
